Tracks of Pain
by steelmongoose
Summary: War. In it you can lose everything you have and everyone you love, yet it is in the peace afterwards that you have to deal with that pain. War is the bleeding wound, peace the jagged scar afterwards.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

_Scars are naught but the tracks of pain, left across the body or heart,_

_All these tracks lead back to you, for every moment we are apart._

- excerpt from the 3,000 year old Thalassian poem, _The Lost and the Lone._

"Reconsider, at the very least. A day, no more. You'll see that…"

" I have considered, and reconsidered, and considered again. Can you say the same? "

" You think my decision was any easier reached than your own? Do you think that little of me now?"

Crys'annadath looked up from his task with a start and a sharp glace at his sister. She stood rigid, slender hands curled into fists. There was much pain in her sky blue eyes, so much so that it hurt Crys deeply to even meet her gaze. He awkwardly looked back down to his meager possessions laid out on the neatly made bed. They should not part ways with hurt feelings between them, they should not even be parting ways at all….

" No, I do not question your integrity or your determination, only the ways you wish to express them. To remain behind…" Crys began, but found he couldn't form the words on his lips, which curled ever-so-slightly in response. They tasted too sour to his sensibilities to attempt it again.

Rhell'sardessa's arms slid up her body until she was hugging her sides, as if suffering from some internal malady.

" You can't even say the words. Destroyed. Gone. Ravaged. Do they sound better coming from me? Knowing it is about our homeland and our family that I speak? You weren't there Crys. You didn't see them…see them… " Rhell sobbed, turning away from her brother with crystal tears once again streaking down her pale cheeks.

" You were not there either, " Crys responded with some anger in his voice, " you weren't there when Dalaran came crashing down like a sand castle before the waves. No matter where we were, neither of us could have changed what happened. Jaina calls us to gather together and head to the west. Our duties are finished here, there is no sense in remaining to salvage what cannot be regained. Come with me, now. The last ships cast off tomorrow whether we be on them or not. "

Rhell said nothing, her shoulders shaking as she quietly wept, still turned away from him.

Crys methodically began to pack again, amazed by both how little he still retained from his former life and how long it was taking to pack when each item was like a stab at his heart. The lifting of each article was one step closer to walking out the door of the simple cottage they had lived in for the past week, and never coming back.

Finally red robes rustled as she turned about, arms once again at her sides. Crys didn't like her in red, it was like she was wallowing in spilt blood, rather than wearing the colors of the sky like she used to. The strawberry-blonde hair piled atop her head was the same still, one of the many similarities between them that marked them as siblings. A more intangible shared trait was stubbornness.

" I disagree. To abandon our homeland is dereliction of duty. We have to rally the remaining forces and expunge the undead, face the very thing that vexes us. Running away across the ocean solves nothing, they will simply follow you and lay waste to whatever you have done there as well. We have to draw the line here. "

Crys couldn't believe it, but he was finished packing, and finished arguing. The two siblings, most likely the only blood relation each of them had left, were about to part ways, the finality of that event crystallized in the form of his fully packed rucksack. Reaching down with almost ceremonious care, Crys buckled on his sword belt, the familiar weight of the blade now seeming like an anchor pinning him in place. The elven siblings looked at each other silently for a long moment, an eternity compressed into a fragment of time. Seeing there was nothing that could sway her to come or him to remain, Crys took up the modest weight of his life and slung it over his shoulder, walking to the door. Through the round glass window in the door the elf could see the rest of the refugee shanty town, the mark of a people now without a home. Turning his head back slightly towards her he uttered those words that would haunt him for every day afterwards;

" I hope you can live with your choice. "

To which she responded evenly; " And I hope you can live with yours. "

Crys'annadath Skychaser grasped the handle of the cottage's door…and walked out of his sister's life forever.

I can live with my choice, sister, but only just.

Only just.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Soft footfalls sounded through the tower's spiraling stairwell, the sound of someone slowly and deliberately making their way up the five-hundred and fifty steps to the very top floor. It was a sizable tower, with at least a twenty yard radius and five stories high, a prominent edifice composed of solemn grey stone over-looking Theramore Island's west coast, not a dozen paces from the city's outer-most wall. The lone figure passed closed doors where men's voices were reduced to whispers, not that the figure would be able to understand them even if they could be heard clearly. They spoke of magic, and of the things both light and dark found within that arcane study, things that the single ascender knew nothing about, and wanted no part of. Magic. It suffused the very stones and mortar that the building was composed of, it fairly hummed just beyond the range of hearing possessed by mortal men. This then, was a tower of wizards, a tower of learning, of discovery, and a self-imposed prison for some. Greymere Tower.

The figure carried a lamp with them, the small flame burning straight and true, protected by a fluted glass barrier from gusts. It was repressively dark in the tower, even with the faintly glowing bluish crystals that hovered above ornate gold stands every twenty-five steps. All windows were found in the chambers at the core of the tower, all which spiraled in a graceful dance alongside its smaller partner, the stairwell. The monotony of the grey walls, black doors and light crystals was interrupted on occasion by a large purple banner that hung limply against the wall, dyed a dark violet with an elaborate golden 'D' centered near the bottom, and emblem that used to fly free in magic-laden air in a land so distant from this one.

At long last the figure moved past the final stair, finding themselves on a curving balcony that offered a panoramic view of the bustling and slightly cramped city below. Arches drooped down into smooth columns which then met with the short wall ringing the balcony. The ledges were clear of the bird droppings which adorned the upper reaches of most other buildings, a simple warding spell forcing the avian interlopers to land elsewhere. The figure paused, taking in a deep lungful of air tinged with sea-salt and wood smoke, the ascent taxing even for the young.

A thin sheen of sweat coated the brow of the figure, who wiped it away with a cream-colored sleeve. Sarah took in another draught of morning air and fluffed her skirts, allowing a cooling breeze to waft past that cotton barrier. It was humid today, and made more so by the enclosed tower. These wizards and their cavern-like homes. It wouldn't do any of them a bit of harm to come out into the sun once and awhile. Her free hand pushed away the loose strands of wavy, coppery hair that hung about her round face, escapees from the bun she had fashioned earlier that morning. Finally satisfied she was presentable she walked over to the weather-worn door opposite the balcony and almost grasped the handle, then quickly jerked her hand back. She couldn't believe she had almost forgotten the last time. 'Tsking' herself for being so absent-minded she stamped her foot three times on the stone floor and spoke one word aloud; "Beslak. "

Threads of blue electricity suddenly snaked around the door's golden handle with a light crackling noise and then ceased. It wasn't lethal, but it had kept Sarah bed-ridden for nearly a full day afterwards the one time she had forgotten about it. Grasping the now slightly warm door handle she pushed it open.

The room was dark, part of the reason she had brought the lantern. Thick forest green drapes with slim piece of iron sewn into a pocket at the bottom covered over the high windows, which were also shuttered tightly. The cloistered room reeked of potent alcohol and sour vomit, a smell that wrinkled Sarah's nose and cast her mind back to some of the less pleasant days of her youth, waking her father from a similar stupor. Her first order of business was to open the windows and let some fresh air and sunlight in. The copper curtain rings rasped over the metal rod supporting the drapes as they were slid open, and with a twist of a latch and a solid rap with her open palm the shuttered swung open, allowing the air and light to come rushing in. The chamber's only other occupant to offense to this, however, groaning unintelligibly at the cheery onslaught. Sarah ignored the room's owner, her skirts rustled as she went about her next task, filling a copper basin with water from a smooth-lined mother-of-pearl pitcher, which could endlessly produce cool, clean water. She also used it to fill one of the plain copper goblets found sitting up-ended beside the pitcher, then sprinkling in some dried mint leaves and stirring it around by jostling her hand. Such items, most notably the pitcher, were worth a small fortune to most, but were common place in a finely appointed room such as this.

To one side of the room, a large table lovingly carved from golden oak still managed to shine despite a dulling veneer of dust, the marble-smooth finish the mark of an expert craftsman. The legs were bowed gracefully and gilded with a thin layer of gold, the base carved to resemble oak leaves. It was piled high with scattered papers and scrolls, as if a small twister had taken up residence there in the recent past. Two high-backed chairs of a style matching the large table stood angled towards the fireplace which occupied the curved northern wall, padded with green velvet cushions, and a small round table set between them. Book shelves in various states of disarray and a sideboard crowned with thin-stemmed crystal goblets and a decanter containing a vestigial amount of amber liquid covered most of the wall space, along with a large tapestry stretched across two wooden shafts depicting an idyllic sylvan city of white marble towers amidst a lush old-growth forest. Silvermoon, as it was. The room's master had gone to extreme lengths to obtain that tapestry, hunting it down all the way to Ratchet far to the north, and even then he paid a lord's ransom for it, the avaricious goblins seeing that it held special meaning to him. Rotten little dastards.

The round chamber was sectioned off along the south wall, the owner's bed chambers behind a wooden door stained a deep green. A pity he couldn't have made it there last night, it would have been far more comfortable than lying slouched against the right side of the fire place, surrounded by the tattered pieces of a torn up book and an empty glass bottle laying just beyond his open palm. Copper cup in hand Sarah walked over to the man who still tried to fight off consciousness.

He was an elf, his angular face, high cheek bones and tapering, pointed ears more than evidence of that fact. His hair was shoulder length and shone like burning gold with a tint of red in the sunlight, even if it was in a terrible tangle at the moment. Dried vomit caked his chin and the collar of his amber robe, most of it still managing to find a resting place on the flagstones of the hearth. A collection of fine blonde hairs cradled his cheeks and chin, the elven equivalent of stubble.

" Rash talna! Peelot amaneth! " the elf slurred, eyes fluttering open and arms pushing away at the air in front of her. Sarah pursed her lips and waited. Like the language of magic, she didn't understand a word of elven, but she knew well enough the gist of what was being said. Eventually the elf relented and stopped his flailing, sitting limply like a puppet without any strings.

" I'm…sorry, " he croaked, gazing at her through slitted eyes.

" Quite alright, dear, " she responded, handing him the goblet.

The elf took the metal container and gulped the contents, swished it around in his mouth and spat it out into the fireplace, wetting the ashes there. One more swig and spit and the goblet was empty. Taking it from his hand the elf got shakily to his feet and looked out to the window.

" What time is it? Not evening to be sure. "

" Nay, but it's approaching noon and every other resident of the city is up and about by this hour. "

Taking the jibe with the fortitude of a man suffering a hangover he walked stiffly over to the wash basin and began to douse his face with water. When he was at last satisfied he ignored the cloth beside the bowl and dried himself with the hem of his robe, drawing a frown from Sarah. She looked about the chamber once again, noting the tomes pushed to the floor, the trampled scrolls, torn pages.

" Another bad night for you, eh dear? "

Surveying the destruction as if it was for the first time the elf finally nodded sagely, a look of grief passing over his handsome features. His blood-shot eyes regarded the human before him, the irises still as sharp a steel blue color as always.

" Why? " he finally asked, his fingers idly tracing over the stubble on his face.

" Why what, dear? " she returned, cocking her head slightly at the vague question.

" Why do you do this, day after day? Why do you care? "

Sarah contemplated the question, choosing to ignore the slight accusatory edge it held.

"I do it because I've seen men far less than you turned to beasts by a hard life and hard drink. It's a right shame. I'm just a simple serving woman, always have been, but if I can help someone who's down on themselves and who has fought to protect the likes of me in that awful war, well, it's my way of saying 'thank you'. "

The elf looked a little shocked by her words, and then he bowed his head apologetically.

" Then allow this simple man to thank you in turn. Charity, freely given, has a kind of magic to it as well, and you, gentle madam, are an arch wizard of it. "

Sarah flushed a bit and curtsied, looking coyly at him.

" Your most welcome, m'lord. Your thanks are all I ever looked for. "

The elf twisted his upper body about until his vertebrae popped audibly, the fine paid for a night sleeping on unyielding stone.

" Be you needing anything else before I depart? "

The elf smiled slightly, and shook his blonde locks.

" Nay. Return to your daily routine, and stop by the paymaster downstairs on your way out. He'll give you a fair sum in my name for your troubles. "

" I couldn't accept…" she began, but he interrupted her.

" Putting up with me is nasty work, and dangerous besides. You deserve the wage of a guard captain at the very least. I insist. "

She opened her mouth to protest again, but then just smiled broadly.

" Aye, m'lord. I'll do as you say. Good day to you, and try to eat something. "

Again he nodded, " I will, promise. "

Sarah was nearly out of the door and the elven male was considering what to wear that day when she suddenly stopped and wheeled about, reaching down to the wide sash around her waist. " Oh m'lord, I nearly forgot! A page handed this to me, said to deliver it to you when you roused yourself this morning. It looks frightfully important. "

The servant produced a slim folded paper, and as she handed it to him, he saw that it bore the white and purple marbled wax seal of the Theramore ruling council, most specifically its head, one Jaina Proudmoore. Frightfully important indeed.

" Thank you again, Sarah. I'll read it the moment you've gone. "

The human woman curtsied again and left, closing the door behind her.

Crys'annadath Skychaser held the letter up into the light and regarded it with some interest. What could they need him for now?


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Half an hour later found Crys fully attired in what was essentially his "dress uniform". He had spent the lion's share of his adult life in Dalaran, living and working with its human rulers and serving to bolster their already impressive standing army as a warmage. He lead attacks on dangerous humanoids such as trolls and ogres during the more peaceful years, earning some distinction as an efficient and savvy trouble-shooter. When the Scourge began to threaten Dalaran's borders he participated in daring raids against their bases of operations, disrupting their mining operations and bringing more than a few of their structures down into flaming ruins. All of the elves working with Dalaran had heard the Scourge's advance on Quel'thalas, and while some had left in defense of their homeland, others, like Crys'annadath, had chosen to remain, confident in Sylvannas Windrunner's abilities to stop the undead's advance. Afterwards, the tainting of the Sun Well and the loss of its flow of magic drove many elves to insane lengths to destroy their unliving foes, Crys among them. It was because of one of these dangerous vengeance-fueled raids that the warmage had had to remain out of the final defense of Dalaran, in a small camp of the wounded, the infirm and the civilian population. The anguish he had felt when he watched the elegant spires of the capital city crumble was almost enough to break the elf, especially considering the loss of Silvermoon and thousands of elves piled on top of that. Then, in traveling, well, fleeing was more accurate, he chanced upon his sister, and he had been given new hope to keep living…but that was another story.

His clothing was a somber array colored shades of purple, in deference to the parent nation he had served with and the Kirin Tor which ruled over it. A short robe covered his torso, dyed indigo, with full-length sleeves and wide cuffs, and the bottom hem reaching down to just above his knees, a slender black leather belt with a silver buckle cinching off the robe at his waist. Loose-fitting violet breeches covered his legs and were gathered up and tucked into the dun, shin-high leather boots on his feet. The boots were a family heirloom, inset with silver wires artfully placed along its supple surface and enchanted to give the wearer a slight boost to his reflexes. The cuffs, folded collar and hem of the robe were decorated with a band of black silk, onto which white four-pointed stars were sewn at regular intervals. Stiff leather shoulder plates dyed violet and decorated with silver filigree jutted just over an inch past his actual shoulder, portraying a more militaristic image than most mage's robes did. Due to the humidity outside Crys decided to forego an undershirt, which could be thick wool or fine silk depending on the season and always dyed black. Finally, a night blue cloak was slung over Crys' shoulder and fastened into place by a silver broach in the shape of a leaf, and a thick silver chain. The back of the cloak was sewn with silver thread and depicted the emblem of Quel'thalas, a silver, many-branched tree with roots showing, crowned by a downwards facing crescent moon and flanked by two four-pointed stars. A gift from graduating from the academy of magic in Silvermoon, and one of his most prized possessions.

Crys had untangled his hair and it now sat straight and even from his scalp. The foremost locks of his hair were pulled back along his temples and gathered into a small ponytail at the back of his skull, presenting a more orderly appearance and keeping gusts of wind from blowing hair in his eyes. He remarked inwardly that his breeches were fitting a little tighter than they had during the war, a life of heavy drinker and a practicing recluse taking a toll on the trim figure most elves possessed naturally. It wasn't much now, but in five years, who knew? Crys quickly abandoned these thoughts. He had trouble enough getting through today without fruitless worrying about the future. He paused at the door long enough take up the short walking staff he had commissioned made upon his return to Theramore after the Legion's defeat. It was about four feet long and made of dark wood, capped with gold at the bottom. The shaft was of consistent thickness from top to bottom, that being about twice as thick as a man's thumb, and polished until it looked like glass. The top handle was made of ribbed gold with a small smooth star sapphire set into the top. Unbeknownst to most, the cane also served as a weapon, the top three-and-a-half feet of the shaft was shaped to accept a slender-bladed long sword, which, with a simple twist of the gold handle, could be unsheathed and used. Crys disliked openly carrying about a weapon in these times of supposed peace, and also enjoyed tricking would-be foes into believing he was unarmed except for his spells. Crys could wield a blade as good as any human, and when he found his spells exhausted or ineffective, put those skills to good use on the battlefield.

Pushing open the door and closing it behind him Crys turned and tapped the stone balcony three times sharply with his staff and spoke; "Kalseb."

The door's handle sparked with electricity and the trap was activated. It was almost a needless precaution, but the elven wizard didn't take chances with his possessions, especially after his trip to Ratchet showed him how many wizard's items goblin thieves had managed to lay their hands on. Cloak fluttering out dully behind him Crys descended the stairs, the opened letter he had been sent sitting tucked into his pocket and its contents occupying his mind. _Come to the council building at once, have a matter of some urgency to discuss, _it had simply read, then signed with a 'J' at the bottom. It was just enough to command him to come, not enough to make him start formulating reasons or excuses for not responding.

Crys passed through the richly appointed waiting area on the main floor and out the main doors of Greymere tower. The street outside contained its usual bustle of commoners going about their daily lives and the occasional patrol of armored humans making their rounds. Crys glided through them with the aloofness expected of both an elf and a wizard, most moving aside or altering their direction slightly to avoid him even if they weren't directly in his path. The warmage kept his expression indifferent, neither snarling nor smiling, a look that dissuaded interruptions from those around him.

The mild headache that he still endured from the night had begun to flare up from the exercise and noise he was getting, making him long for the comforting seclusion of his chambers, or an isolated wooded glen. Elves were not meant to live in cities like this, Theramore City little more than a fortress that had grown too big for its walls. The stonework was neat and professional, the streets orderly and paved, but with practically the whole entirety of the human race located on a single island and a few scattered settlements, there was precious little room for green spaces of any kind. One could walk for half the city and not see anything more substantial than a potted plant. It didn't help that the nearest wilderness was Dustwallow Marsh, a fetid swamp filled with murlocs, sink holes, and black dragons. Yes, Theramore was a crowded city, and having such a large population confined behind walls, it was not uncommon to have tempers flare and fists fly, especially when it was a racial difference at fault. The Alliance still held a tenuous treaty with the Horde and the night elves, but each day that some earth-shattering evil was not just over the horizon, the need to continue being friendly and honor past treaties grew smaller and smaller.

Linking up with a main street Crys was again reminded why he did not enjoy strolling about during the daylight hours. His pace had slowed to a crawl while the citizens bought and sold goods, talked about their days, and moved from place to place. More than a few could stand a good dousing in soapy water, or at the least a toss into the bay, the humidity only heightening the odor. A thin sheen of sweat soon covered the elf's brow, the claustrophobic environment and beating sun causing the perspiration to spring forth. Gritting his teeth in an effort to remain calm a wave of nausea and a gnawing pain suddenly erupted in his chest, and he gasped aloud despite himself. Maneuvering so that he now leaned heavily against a nearby building's wall his left hand reflexively clutched at his breast. Of course! He had far surpassed the time when he usually meditated to fight off the effects of the addiction, the stress and the previous night's binge only reinforcing its strength. This then, this was the price all the high elves now had to pay for being shut off from the Sunwell's glorious mana. Crys knew there was nothing for it now, he would have to live with the stabbing ache for the rest of the day, even though it left him distracted and, if it were cast on him, more susceptible to the effects of magic, his body subconsciously trying to draw in what it needed.

People noticed the tall elf in pain, face ghost white and glistening with sweat. Most were too wary even to spare more than a curious glance his way, but eventually a call for a priest was relayed down the street. "That won't do anything," Crys muttered angrily, but the call had already gone out. Eventually a pair of plate-armored guardsmen with a priest of the Light muscled their way through the crowds towards the ailing elf. Forcing himself to stand upright Crys willed the pain away, giving up some of his own prepared spells to temporarily feed the screaming void in his body.

"What grieves you so, wizard?" the first footman asked, eyes peering out from behind the enclosed helmet. The priest behind them was female, and an elf besides. The warmage didn't address the speaker, instead looking directly at the priest and answering.

"It's nothing clerical powers can aid in, it will pass shortly." The other elf read his expression and then nodded somewhat sadly in acknowledgement.

"His ailment is not one of the body. Good day to you, sir mage," she said quietly, then turning about and walking away. The two humans looked at each other in confusion and then shrugged and clanked after her.

Having enough of being gawked at by rabble Crys decided that he would simply teleport there. He could only do it once, his return trip would have to be on foot, but as he did with most matters these days, he would worry about the future when it happened. Sliding his hand the shaft of his cane until it was near the middle he hefted it and drew it in a wide half-circle before him, a starburst of bluish-white magic radiating from the tip of his short staff as it moved. Traffic on the street ceased, watching the display of magic, but Crys was insensitive to their gaze, his eyelids closed and concentrating on the broad steps of the council building with his mind's eye. A small ring of the bright energy inset with mystic runes formed around his feet, and then suddenly flared up like a fire given new fuel, and the elf was gone. The public chatted about how nice it would be to teleport around at will for a few minutes, but soon the sick-looking elf and his magic display passed from the collective minds of those on the street and life returned to normal.

In the blink of an eye Crys found himself standing on the white marble steps he had envisioned in his mind. The council chambers were sufficiently impressive enough to give those who viewed it a sense of the critical issues that were decided upon there, a symbol of their government and its power. Of course, it paled in comparison to the castle that had existed back in Lordaeron's capital city, but something of that extravagance was not permitted by both costs and size issues. The two guards stationed flanking the main doors started at his sudden appearance, halberds fluidly coming down into a fighting grip, blades aimed at Crys. Once they got a good look at him they returned to their former statue-like positions without saying a word, most likely used to such arrivals with a number of mages on the ruling council. The elf strode past them with a slight nod and pushed open the door, walking into the austere interior of the building where the head of the remaining human forces awaited him.

Two flights of stairs up and down a long corridor where pages and clerks in blue tunics quietly did the menial tasks of the council behind the scenes. Crys walked through them without so much as a glance in their direction, his eyes focused on the double doors at the end of the hall, emblazoned with the stylized 'L' of the kingdom of Lordaeron in shining gold. The doors lead to a small antechamber, in which a round stained-glass skylight let in blue and golden light, yet another emblem of Lordaeron shaped from the two shades of glass. There were a few small shrubs in pots and wooden benches for those who had to wait to be admitted, and four soldiers equipped like the duo outside stood guarding the doors to the actual council room, and to the door leading to Jaina's private office chambers. It was quite warm in this room, only a small arched window facing to the south-east permitting any air flow, Crys did not relish of staying in there for much longer, nor envy the guards who had to remain there after he had departed. Wanting to get his wait over with as soon as possible Crys turned to one of the guards flanking Jaina's office.

"Please inform the governess that Crys'annadath Skychaser has arrived."

'The governess already knows,' a woman's voice sounded in his head, a telepathic message from perhaps the most talented remaining wizard in the Alliance. 'I will be with you shortly, please make yourself comfortable in the mean time.'

Crys recovered from the shock quickly, motioning the guard away from the door and saying; "Never mind. It must be nice to work someone who can read your thoughts, eh gentlemen?" he asked the four of them, receiving some uncomfortable shuffling and clearing of throats from the plate-armored guards as a response.

Allow himself a brief chuckle at their expense Crys's hands began to twist and bend, words of power quietly spoken tumbling effortlessly from his lips. Despite the gnawing ache in his gut, being able to control the arcane forces that permeated the world almost made up for it. Even with minor spells there was a sense of satisfaction in manipulating the world to suit your own needs, though it was this very same sense of satisfaction that lead to the often lethal hubris that was almost the world's downfall three times and counting. When at last Crys' hands stilled their writhing dance the air became noticeably cooler in the chamber, changing the mid-day heat to an evening's clime, even while the sun still shone brightly above them. The guard's shoulder plates all fell a little bit as they drank in the refreshingly cool air, some releasing deep sighs of relief. The elven warmage slid into one of the benches wooden embrace, glad for the change as well. A few quick nods in his direction let him know that his spell was welcomed gratefully by them all.

It wasn't long before Jaina's office door was pushed open, with more force than was necessary, or polite. A well-dressed dwarf storming out, his thick eyebrows almost meeting above his nose in a severe frown. The short visitor paused momentarily as he walked into the cool air, but then his dark eyes spotted the source, the robed elf, and he muttered something derogatory as he struck up his previous walking pace. Obviously some sort of dwarven diplomat, if there was such a thing, doubtlessly complaining about the insultingly small (no pun intended) representation their race receives on the Alliance Assembly. It was made up of five humans and two elves, and to be ruled by these two races was almost more than the stout folk could bear. The dwarf passed quickly from Crys' mind when a voice from behind the now open door bade him enter. Rising from his seat and taking one last quick moment to make himself presentable the elf walked into the room with a nonchalance he did not feel.

The room was spacious, yet made small by the dizzying array of books, letters and maps that made Crys' own collection seem paltry by comparison. While the oak shelves seemed to fairly burst with written material, Crys also noticed that they were neatly arranged, and most likely in alphabetical order, a must if one had precious little time to waste searching your shelves for the proper information, and Governess Jaina Proudmoore was one who had very few spare moments in her day.

Despite penning something on a blank vellum scroll she rose as he entered the room, not breaking in her task until she had finished the sentence. It was only then she put the quill aside and met his gaze, her face welcoming, but in the polite manner afforded to any whom one would meet in their daily routine. It took the elf a second for the full impact of her appearance to strike him, causing him to grimace slightly.

There was nothing wrong with the young leader of the Alliance's appearance, not at all, but the combination of ice blue eyes, well-groomed blonde hair, and a light crimson robe gave a little twist to a dagger called regret that had been lodged in his heart since that fateful day he left his sister Rhell. The faintest of frowns crossed Jaina's dignified yet still youthful face, Crys silently cursing himself for letting his pain show to her, of all people. "Are you not well?" she asked, gesturing with a slim hand to a chair padded with brown leather cushions in front of her desk. The elf shook his head and quickly removed the pained look from his face, seating himself and resting his cane against his knees.

"No, its nothing. I'm just not used to the humidity, that's all. I rarely venture beyond my chamber door these days."

Jaina seated herself as well, nodding shallowly in understanding while her eyes still watched him intently.

"We could postpone this meeting until later if you wished, the evening perhaps," she offered. Crys shook his head and held up his hand.

"Nay, I've endured far worse than a little heat in the past, and I make concessions to the governess, not the other way round. Your reason for summoning me has the air of direness about it, and I would have it laid out before I can settle myself.

Please, continue."

Once he was able to put aside her resemblance to his sister, Crys'annadath was reminded why the arch-mage seated before him was referred to as "the Golden Sorceress ". Even amongst the fair folk of the Quel'dorei she would be counted as possessing great beauty, a beauty only matched by her staggering magical ability and the power she now wielded. Crys was certain that he had lived five of her lifetimes, yet her keen mind, aptitude for the arcane, and privileged tutelage under Antonidas of the Kirin Tor made her his superior in ability. It was her level-headedness and leadership which also allowed the tattered remains of the Alliance to survive the third coming of the Burning Legion and settle in a land altogether foreign and harsh to them. The elf realized that he was probably staring, and quickly gave the room another thoughtful look to conceal his true interest, including a glance out of the three windows set side-by-side in the south wall, which afforded a view of Theramore's main street, both the street and the view of it extending all the way up to the main gates at the city's southern tip.

"The matter I have brought you here for is indeed dire, and I offered postponement only out of politeness. I knew you wouldn't truly accept it. My concerns involve a recent murder within the city, and before you dismiss it out of hand," she added quickly, holding up her index finger to still Crys, who had indeed begun to formulate reasons why such a thing did not concern him," know that the killer was a mage, and that more deaths have been promised for the future."

The elven warmage listened to her carefully, his own concern growing with each new fact.

"The body was of a prominent fish-merchant who had been reported missing the evening previous, Jhek Herodose was his name. A passing patrol spotted his remains not ten feet from where his business operated. He wore the tattered remains of the night shirt he had put on prior to turning in for the night, and through it numerous cuts and scrapes could be seen, including several large gashes along his torso that had been crudely stitched closed. He had been operated on, though what twisted mind would use a healer's art for torture I do not know. A slender metal spike pinned a note to his chest, and its contents were enough for the captain of the guard to be sent for."

"Before he arrived one of the patrol men had leaned down to examine the corpse more thoroughly, including the note. Despite cautionary warnings by his fellows, said patrolman tried to tear the note from the corpses' chest, his hand grasping the paper but suddenly the corpse moved, grabbing the guard's arm in the steely grip afforded to the undead. The corpse then proceeded to laugh hysterically, and exploded suddenly into a mass of flying flesh, bone, and green fire. Three men died from it, and five were injured, one of those only surviving because the guard captain was nearby and is an experienced paladin as well. The flames burnt even stone, and has left an evil-smelling stain on the street despite best attempts to cleanse it. Our priests tell me that it is demonic in nature, and will likely take divine magicks to fully erase it."

" 'I am the first, but not the last' the message had said, the guard captain and myself doing everything we can to keep that message away from the ears of the public, but if this madman continues to kill in such a manner, the truth will become inescapable. I need you, then, to investigate this murder and bring to justice the ones responsible. You will have the full cooperation of the city guard as well as any aid that can be rendered either by myself or any wizard within Theramore's walls. We must purge this corruption as soon as possible, lest it continue to spread and compound our problems. Can you do this for me?"

Crys took a moment to let the question hang in the air, thinking about this task laid out before him. It was a far cry from his usual duties, indeed, far from anything he'd done previous. Was he really capable of hunting down a murderer? In a way it was no different than trying to out-think and out-maneuver an enemy commander, but Theramore wasn't a war zone, and he hadn't commanded troops in over a year.

" Why me? " he asked, sitting further back in his chair and giving the arch-mage before him a critical look. Jaina had apparently expected such a question, and, nonplussed, folded her hands before her on the desk and explained.

"For one, I simply can't spare anyone else. You are the only mage, to my best knowledge, who has both the experience and the, shall we say, _free time_, to take on this assignment," she said matter-of-facty, Crys catching the none-to-subtle jibe at his personal habits.

"Also," she continued, "I have heard exemplary things about you from what few former commanders I have come into contact with since the end of the war. You have a sharp mind and a head for strategy, both traits you will find to be useful when compiling facts and attempting to preempt the killer's next move. Plus there is the Sight…." she paused, letting the term dangle in the air, no explanation needed to what she referred too.

The Sorcerous Sight, as it was known amongst the elves, was a very rare gift, a thing born once in a ten generations from the elves constant exposure to the arcane every day of their lives. While there were spell-magic equivalents in the world, the ability to see or hear what was occurring in distant places that were familiar to the individual at any time was an ability possessed by very few indeed. It had been Crys'annadath's gift and tool throughout his entire career as a warmage, giving him glimpses at the layout of enemy campsites, let him hear the whispered battle plans discussed in a commander's tent late at night, and had earned him rank and honors faster than any of his peers. He had also, over the years, developed the ability to read lips and had become a decent sketch artist to aid him in retaining the information received from such visions. After the war against the Burning Legion, Crys had been given a very cushy duty in recognition of his service and his gift; use his Sight to keep track of human settlements on the mainland, as well as a few hotspots on Kalimdor, such as Bael Modan, Ratchet, and Orgimmar. This meant traveling to these places and getting familiar with an important area within it, and using those memories to allow him to see or hear them again in the future. Once they were fixed in his mind, he need only visit them with his magical senses to determine if something of importance was happening there or not. It only took up about an hour of Crys' day, the rest left to pursue his own interests, though what that amounted to was usually a few hours spent repairing the damage he had done the night previous and then indulging heavily in drink to deaden the pain he still carried within him.

Could he do it? Yes.

Would he do it?

"Yes," he said finally, his eyes refocusing on her face after staring at nothing while he pondered. "I will do this thing for you. I can't make any guarantees, but I'll do my best to bring the person or persons responsible for this heinous crime to justice."

Jaina smiled faintly at his response, her body relaxing slightly as she sat back in her chair, the wood creaking slightly at the movement.

"Excellent news. Your usual duties are hereby suspended until the case is solved to everyone's satisfaction, and you will draw a special duties pay from the treasury, as well as a bonus depending on how swiftly, and more over, quietly you bring the murderer to justice." The smile from the arch-mage's face had already vanished, like a precious spring blossom fading swiftly under the summer's heat. Her unadorned hands began searching through a sheaf of papers nearby, her attention focused solely on her task, undoubtedly preparing herself for her next meeting. Crys took that opportunity to rise, stepping around the chair and half-turned towards the door should she have anything to add.

"I rest better knowing that as a special emissary of the Alliance Assembly you understand that there is a certain image that must be maintained at all times. Behavior unbecoming someone in such a powerful position would start casting doubts as to the competence of Theramore's rulers…" she commented, glancing sideways at him with serious blue eyes. Crys'annadath subconsciously stiffened at this veiled warning, reminded again that there was likely little that Jaina did not know, or could not find out, about his life. She was the one who had the letter delivered to him via Sarah after all.

"You may indeed rest easy, governess," the elf replied, bowing his head in her direction before starting to walk towards the door.

"I would start by questioning the men who survived the explosion, they are stationed in the east barracks, resting until they are fit to return to duty. I would also recommend becoming familiar with the guard captain, building a friendly rapport with him would certainly expedite the exchange of information."

Crys looked to her over his shoulder and nodded. She was already engrossed in her next task, scribbling something down on a scroll.

"I will, thank you," was his clipped response as he left.

Outside the office the cool air continued to hold the mugginess at bay, and would for a few hours more. Crys was loathe to leave and face the hot, sweaty chore of making his way through the press of humans on the streets outside to reach his destination, but as he had told Jaina, he had endured worse. Already his mind had begun to toy with theories and culprits as he walked through the legislative buildings' corridors. Who could be doing such a thing and for what reason? Burning Legion cultists? A rogue necromancer splintered off from the Scourge? An Alliance mage with a personal grudge against the ruling council? If the elf knew one thing, it was that this case would likely become more clouded before things started to became clear, and would he be able to solve the puzzle before he himself, became a target?

Crys walked out into a bustling city which suddenly seemed filled with potential killers and their accomplices.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Edward Strongshield was everything the elf had expected from a paladin of the Order of the Silver Hand, which was exactly what made him intolerable to be around. Crys had taken Jaina's suggestion about getting to know the local authorities better, stating with the top, and the captain of the city guard was as high as you could get. Standing a hair taller than Crys' six foot and three inch height, but twice as broad, Edward was the very image of the idealistic go-getter and stout defender of the weak. He was clean-shaven except for the traditional handle-bar moustache that seemed as much a part of the paladin order as their oaths of loyalty, his sandy-blonde hair cropped short and neatly arranged, and wearing a spotless white tunic and blue breeches tucked into black boots polished until they gleamed like tumbled obsidian. He often twirled the hairs on the end of his handlebar moustache in his idle moments, as if enjoying the very thought that one of the long-traditional symbols of the paladin order were adorning his face. With a clap on the back that nearly sent the elven wizard sprawling Edward gave Crys a tour of the barracks, all the while pointing out improvements he had made, including his plans to install a metal pole through the second story floor that footmen could slide down to their posts in the case of an emergency. Crys kept his true feelings well hidden, commenting when required by politeness and the whole while wishing he had access to some sort of time-shifting spell.

Then there were the questions about family, and how his son if growing up to be quite the scholar, but needed a little more horseplay to develop his body as well. When asked about his love life Crys explained that he needed some wounds to heal first, holding his cane up to his chest. Thankfully Edward said nothing further, just nodding sagely and changing the subject. When at last they had made it to the infirmary Crys was able to get a few uninformative moments with the guards who were present at the murder scene. They had little to add, commenting once again on how the corpse had been mutilated and then sewn back up, the fiery explosion, the sinister note pinned to its chest. Each of course had their own pet theories on who did it, from a thieves guild to troll necromancers who had manipulated the dead body using a small doll that looked like the victim. The elf thanked them for their time and left in Edward's company.

Lastly they visited Theramore's prison, Ironclad, a suitably impressive and effective stockade that, fortunately, usually housed only a regular rotation of drunks and rowdies. Crys was always sure that if went drinking on particular evening that he left before he was completely intoxicated, allowing him to stagger home and finish the deed in peace. He drank because it dulled the pain, but it was still _his_ pain. He would not be made a spectacle like these ones imprisoned here, or passed out on the street like sleeping stray. After giving the detention area a quick scan Crys was ready to leave the joyless stone building when something, or someone, caught his attention. Turning to face the one cell to his right completely his eyes widened in recognition.

"Daghmor! Daghmor Darkdelve!"

A dwarf dressed nearly head-to-toe in black leather armor with steel studs sewn abundantly across it lay curled up on the wooden bench facing the wall, obviously sleeping. At the sound of his name being called he started awake and promptly rolled off the narrow bench and tumbled, sputtering dwarven curses, to the straw-strewn floor. "You know this dwarf?" Edward queried, his eyebrow arched in surprise as the stocky prisoner got to his feet and dusted himself off. The dwarf's eyes dimmed with sleep scanned the room and came to rest on Crys' form, a grin forming on his bearded face.

"Ah, Crys lad! It's been awhile. How have ye been keeping yerself?"

Edward had every right to be surprised by the odd relationship, which had begun in an argument. Crys had been waiting for weeks for a shipment of Panderan ale to arrive at a local tavern, but when it had, only half of what composed the entire order had arrived there. Crys quickly found out there was a second client who had ordered a like amount, and there was only enough to fill one order. A resounding "what!" that made his sensitive elven ears ring heralded the arrival of said other client, a dark-eyed dwarf with a thick curly black beard and the broad build of a warrior. Naturally an argument ensued, each comparing the time they had ordered it, how much money they were willing to pay for it, and so on. It ended in insults, Daghmor promising to break Crys over his knee like a piece of kindling, Crys threatening to light the dwarf's beard like a fuse. Something passed between the two of them then, something unspoken. It was as if they both suddenly recognized the other as a veteran of the war, that if they had met several months before, they would have been guarding each others back on the field of battle. After a tense moment the two of them suddenly burst out into laughter, drawing odd looks from the other patrons about.

In the end they split both the cost of the ale and the ale itself, most of it being drank that night over tales of conflict and of homelands left behind. They were a good foil for one another, and had since shared enough drink between them to float the flag ship of the Theramore navy. It didn't surprise Crys in the least to see him here, the dwarf not having the same advantages of rank that would keep the elf from places such as this.

"Captain Strongshield, I want this good dwarf released immediately. This should cover any fines he owes," the warmage said, turning to the paladin and reaching into a pouch to hand him a short stack of gold coin. Edward was dumbfounded, accepting the gold mechanically before finding his tongue to respond.

"This one here is a right devil when he's had a few too many. He caved in a helm and crushed a man's hand through the gauntlet he wore when they were bringing him in last night."

"Then keep yer men's heads away from where a dwarf can whack them!" Daghmor said while smiling fiercely.

Crys held up a hand in the dwarf's direction, still facing Edward.

"I trust the men will recover…?"

"Well, yes, they received clerical healing and..."

"He will remain in my company and I will accept responsibility for his actions in future, agreeable?"

Edward was going to say something more and then just clamped his mouth shut, then releasing a slow breath through his teeth and relenting.

"Alright, sir wizard, he is in your care, but keep him away from the taverns, or you'll be sharing a cell this time tomorrow I promise you that," he warned, getting the jailor to open the cell and release the dwarf. Smiling amiably at the guard captain Daghmor trod out the door followed by Crys.

After retrieving the dwarf's confiscated items, including a polished cudgel made of heavily knotted wood with a leather-wrapped handle, the unlikely duo left the prison.

"So what was it this time, Dagh?" the wizard asked, glancing down at his shorter companion as they walked, also slowing his pace to accommodate Daghmor's slight limp.

The dwarf had lost some use of his right leg after an orcish catapult round crushed it during the second war. Being relegated to mind-numbing guard duty afterwards Daghmor decided that he had just about enough of fighting with the army, and told his commander as much by breaking his nose. After a brief stint in prison, shortened in recognition of his service with the army, Daghmor was a free dwarf, taking enough odd jobs here and there to keep him in ale, food and shelter most of the time. More often than not his devil-may-care attitude and truly heroic intake of alcohol put him on the wrong side of the law, or a prison cell's bars, as was evidenced by where Crys had found him just moments prior.

Daghmor snorted and waved his hand back towards the barracks.

"Feh, the usual. Drunk this, disorderly that. Stuff like I did would've given me extra cleaning duties in the dwarven army, but here they were ready fer a flogging and forced labor breaking rocks, not that it'd be any different from what they got my people doing here in the first place. This living amongst humans, its not any life for a dwarf."

"Nor an elf," Crys added, his eyes staring off into the distance as continued on their way. Daghmor looked up to his companion's face but then just shook his head and grumbled something before changing the subject.

"Thanks for getting me outta there, lad. You were the last person I'd expected to see there to bail me out."

"Truth be told, I hadn't the slightest idea you were there, but seeing how you were, you've given me an idea," the elven wizard confessed, a wry smile crossing his face.

The dwarf regarded his erstwhile rescuer as if he had just found a serpent in his pack, and Crys beginning to steer their walk towards the fish market.

"It's a black stain."

"Observant as ever, my stolid companion, and it is the very same stain that I told you about on our way here."

It was nearly mid-afternoon, the pair stopping to cool their heels and moisten their lips at an inn before setting out again, Crys moving to the scene of the crime while telling Daghmor about it.

"And ye've been commissioned to find out the culprit?"

"Yes, by none other than governess Jaina herself."

Daghmor smirked. "And what self-respecting lad could refuse a request from the Golden

Sorceress? None that stand in my sight."

Crys bowed slightly, a thin smile on his lips. "Certainly not I. She piqued my interest in it and presented several valid points as to why I should become her watch dog. Hence, I am here."

"These points that she presented, were they about the size of a pair of cannonballs and hung about yea high… "

"Daghmor!" Crys admonished, drawing a mischievous grin from the dark-garbed dwarf and looks from several nearby market-goers.

"Yer flushing lad…"

"Irrelevancies aside, I accepted and now I'm going to be calling in a favor from a dear friend of mine to aid me," Crys growled, fixing the dwarf with a piercing stare. Daghmor stroked his beard in thought, looking up into the sky. Finally he shook his head.

"Nay, lad, that I cannot do. If I wanted to be ordered around I'd have stayed in the army. I do owe you, no mistaking that, but I'm not your dwarf."

"Even if it was repaying a favor _and_ you were being paid for your time?"

The leather-clad dwarf considered the offer and nodded agreeably.

"Well lad, that's quite a different thing entirely. How much?"

"Five gold a day, and that's a complete day. You're up when I'm up and you go where I go."

A shake of a dwarven head answered that offer.

"Nothing doing lad, ten gold a day and ye buying my drinks after a hard day of duty in the course of public safety."

This time Crys shook his head, a short laugh accompanying his counter-offer.

"Fifteen gold and not a copper more, and you buy your own drinks. You'll have bled me dry in two nights if I was paying for your 'drunk and disorderly'."

Daghmor gave the elf a sour looked but finally agreed. "So what's first?"

"First, you show me Theramore's underbelly before it gets dark. Then, you and I are going to become the smallest patrol unit in the city. The killer is going to strike again, tonight even, and we need to be nearby to either stop him or catch him."

They pair did just that, Daghmor giving Crys a tour of the best of the worst. Every city had a "bad" district, even one as frequently patrolled and orderly as Theramore, you just had to know where to look. Goblins operating their black market business out the basement of a cobbler's shop; a ring of cutpurses, the oldest of which was only seventeen summers; a warehouse where the land owner held brutal boxing matches between down-on-their luck laborers looking to make a extra few silver. Crys thought briefly about telling Edward about such places, but they were hardly groups of cultists regularly sacrificing virgins to the lords of the Burning Legion. Besides, while not nearly as street-savvy as Daghmor, the elf knew that if he were to disturb the underworld now with arrests and what-not, it would put the murderer on alert as well, lying low until the heat had died down. A well-dressed elf walking with a burly dwarf who looked every inch a thug through the poorer sections of Theramore drew many glances, but they were not approached at any time during their tour, most of their observers likely drawing their own conclusions and steering clear.

"Space is so scarce in the city limits that there's not a single abandoned warehouse in the whole of the city. This means if your murderer is hiding amongst the lower classes, or moving about through their area to commit his crimes, chances are that there are at least five people who have seen him, but just never put two-and-two together," Daghmor explained at one point, gesturing to a warehouse that had workers piling sacks of meal into from a nearby cart. Several children played in the upper floor, most likely the building owner's own family, or that of a worker who was renting the place.

"So why are we here, elf? You said your murderer could wield magic, and I haven't rubbed shoulders with any mages at the local pub," the dwarf asked.

Crys pursed his lips before responding, considering the direction of his investigation carefully.

"I start in the basement and work my way up, so to speak. While it is true that the one responsible for the murders, be they the actual killer or not, is versed in the necromantic arts, wizards rarely work alone. Take our example, for instance," Crys explained, opening his palm and sweeping his arm between himself and Daghmor to encompass them both.

"We've walked for the better part of an hour-and-a-half through Theramore, and not a single word from either a citizen or a guardsmen. The guards assume because you are accompanying me, that you are working for the Alliance in some manner, and thus do no bother you. The laborers see me and assume that I am a client of yours, or your

boss," the elf grinned at the dwarf, who only rolled his eyes, "and think little of my being here. If I were to walk alone here, I would stand out like an ogre on a freshly shorn lawn, and if you were to start loitering around the richer shops and residences, your presence would certainly raise the suspicions of the local guards. I am convinced that the murderer is not working alone in this, possibly even that the caster who reanimated the body and set the magical charge has nothing directly to do with the actual killing. This means he is using some indentured muscle to handle the logistics of his crimes, and I'd wager the right amount of gold spread around here would garner him some quiet help, hence why we are here. "

Crys then shrugged ruefully and sighed.

"Though I must confess theories are all I have right now, with no body to examine and no witnesses to the kidnapping nor the dropping off of the body afterwards. So indulge my amateur musings and remind yourself that you're getting paid handsomely for your time. I'd wager this trumps working as a caravan guard running past the Dustwallow Marsh on its way to Bael Modan, hmm?"

Daghmor's response was an odd rumbling gurgle that originated from his gut, causing the dwarf to pat his slightly rounded belly comfortingly.

"My stomach is reminding me I have eaten naught but a hard-tack biscuit and some thin broth today, and my hunger trumps your musings any day."

Crys conceded the point by inclining his head and nodding slightly.

"That it does friend. We have some time before nightfall, and we'll not need that howling stomach of yours warning the killer of our approach tonight. Can you suggest a place with a variety of fare to please both a dwarven and an elven palate?"

"I'm already walking there lad," the short rogue replied, his feet picking up their pace until he was in the lead despite the old wound hampering his movement. Hunger can be a powerful motivator it seemed, Crys mused.


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

_That day. That single period of time between dusk and dawn that could completely change the direction of a life whose span exceeded 10,000 years. It had happened a little over a year ago, but the pain, the memories, they were so fresh that she expected to still find warm, wet blood coating her hands every time she awoke, still expected to see the gore-splattered walls of the barrow prison greeting her eyes. She had been reborn that day, she had died and been reborn, not as Underwarden Golonda Silvernight, but as Golonda the Assassin, Golonda the Mad, Golonda the willing tool of the Shadow Council. Vengeance was all she lived for now, vengeance against the priestess Tyrande Whisperwind, who, thanks to the sweeping win against the Burning Legion, paid no penalty for releasing Illidan the Betrayer from his rightful place in a cell deep beneath the earth. She killed those whose only crime was their dedication to their duty, pushed them aside or crushed them because they stood in her way, trying to prevent her from releasing a dangerous criminal on a whim. Where was the justice? Where was the recompense? No matter where she ran, no matter whose arm she held tight, be they arch-druid or not, she would pay. The Shadow Council had assured Golonda of that. So what was she doing half a continent away from Ashenvale, in a city that stank of humans and stale magic? _

This thought broke the night elf from her revere, the long nail on her index finger idly scraping mildew from between the moist stones that made up her tiny room far beneath Theramore's streets. Why was she here, while Tyrande laughed and dined with her love; while Aweldessa's laugh was forever stilled, and the only things dining where she lay were the worms picking her bones clean? Golonda had had enough of waiting beneath the earth, she had ten millennia too much of it. Damn Suul'Dracol, damn him and the Shadow Council, damn their orders and their plots and their time biding. A snarl crossed her smooth, violet-skinned face, her nail scratching more fiercely as if she could tunnel her way to Ashenvale, as if she were tearing at Tyrande's very heart. Her nail snapped, a tremor of pain rippling up her hand and only then did she pause, regarding the now jagged fingernail. The pain was nothing, that's all she was now. She took that pain and let it become a part of herself. Another drop in the ocean.

At the very least let her practice her skills here. That human was like defeating a child, all tears and crawling around on the floor, begging for mercy. No challenge whatsoever. She should just leave, or kill Suul and then leave, but in either case she did not need the Shadow Council against her as well. She did not fear death, she only feared dying before Tyrande was in pieces at her feet. She would play their game, play the good little servant, kill whom they wanted killed. It was all only a matter of time. She suddenly cocked her head to the side as if listening. It was nearly nightfall. Centuries beneath the earth had given her an internal clock that was rarely wrong, and when night fell, so too would her blade.

" Begging your most august and dread pardon my lord, but why? Why these murders? "

A question.

Suul'Dracol never liked being questioned, it broke the line between the leader and the follower, the master and the servant. Still, the bold creation that was his plan did deserve some explanation, some guidance for those whose minds were too feeble to grasp true insight into the nature of the world around them.

Perhaps he would explain it.

" Your boldness is misplaced here, Muirdo, " the larger of the two rumbled menacingly, the whole time a ghost of a smile playing across the thin grey lips which spoke the threat. The slight figure dressed in tattered black robes bowed deeply, speaking from this humble position.

" If your forgiveness I cannot receive, then may my great lord slay me on the spot, and use my unworthy flesh for whatever purpose he sees fit. "

A good man, that Muirdo. Very dedicated. He made his pathetic race almost worth keeping around once the world was reduced to flame and ash.

An exaggerated sigh hissed past inhumanly long incisors, the sound of a teacher once again drawing deep from the well of patience. Pale skin shone like clean bone in the torch light, pulled tight across a prominent brow, deeply set eye sockets, and a jutting chin. The eyes themselves were little more than embers of glowing red nestled within two deeply shadowed recesses in the being's skull. A pair of segmented black horns that swept back with the curve of a drawn bow staff began just above the forehead and ended in sharp points a few inches past the back of the skull. Long fingers tapped obsidian black nails each as long as a paring knife against the wooden throne, suggesting a sort of deadly elegance to this creature's manner. He was wearing a mixture of leathers and metal plates all fashioned to make the wearer as imposing as possible, and were all dyed a red so dark it was almost black. Suul'Dracol was a striking figure, all of the above traits and the pair of bat-like wings that jutted out from his shoulder blades clearly marking him is something other than human, marking him as a dreadlord to those who had seen one previous and lived to talk about it.

The demonic figure was sprawled carelessly across a old wooden throne in one of the larger chambers carved into the very rock that made up Theramore Island, one leg planted foot-down on the floor, the other leg's knee joint resting against the right arm rest while the remainder of it dangled over the edge, swinging lightly in a bored rhythm. The hand on the right arm grasped the top of the throne lightly, and it was from this hand that the tapping of talon against wood could be heard, the other lay across the Nathrezim's broad chest, inert at the moment. Suul adjusted himself so that he was sitting properly, albeit in a slightly slouched position, legs crossed in a posture of supreme confidence and ease.

" So you know my plans, eh Muirdo? Are you planning to betray me once you know them? "

The cultist had hardly begun to rise from his previous bow before he forced himself back down again.

" No, great lord. If you do not believe me, then may you slay me and… "

" Yes, yes, I've heard that all before, " the dreadlord sighed, patting the air with his four fingered hand to cease the man's mechanical response. " Very well then, to begin, I ask you a simple question; why did the Burning Legion fail to conquer this world? "

Muirdo stood up and remained silent, either contemplating the question, or wondering if he was being baited into calling the Legion weak.

" Speak! " Suul roared, slamming his open palm against the throne's arm rest, causing some of the joints in the wood to splinter from the force of the impact.

" They tried to match the combined military forces of this world with their own, and there were simply not enough to do so, even after the weakening effects of the Scourge. They used brute force thrice and failed each time, " the acolyte sputtered quickly, backing half a pace away from the angered dreadlord.

" Precisely, Muirdo, precisely. They butted heads like the flaming brutes that they are and found their opponents heads to be stronger. No subtly, no guile, no finesse. I was honestly surprised they would employ something like the Scourge in the first place, especially after the failure of the Horde. The tactician, however, looks to instead draw the enemy to fight on his own terms. He intercepts and confounds the general's messages, he destroy supply depots and caravans, he steals the payroll before it gets to the front. He turns and twists loyalties and those with ambition, letting human nature itself destroy the command structure. The Burning Legion did none of this, despite the repeated offers from the Nethrezim to coordinate the attacks. They feared we would take over, which was of course true, but at least they would have won, " Suul commented off-handedly, waving the issue away as if it were a gnat. Muirdo spoke not a word, listening intently. The dreadlord sat up straighter in his seat when he began to talk again, warming to the subject and with such a rapt listener before him as well.

" In conflict, be it large or small in scale, you do not match a foe strength-for-strength, you attack his weaknesses. Theramore is a tightly packed city full of humans who miss their old homes, their old life, before coming to this strange new land, and have suffered terrible losses from the war. The steadfast dwarves have turned their attention to trying to rediscover their roots rather than seeking out external threats, caring less and less each day about an Alliance that no longer serves their needs. The high elves have fallen into a despondent stupor, their entire racial identity stripped from them as well as the source of their longevity and precious magic. My sources tell me that the gnomes too, have lost their home, and now side with their cousins the dwarves closely out of a need to belong. Theramore is a sun-baked forest, waiting for that one spark to set it all ablaze and tear it apart. With our other cabals set up around Ogrimmar and Nighthaven, I have but to put the humans into such a state of unrest that they will be easy prey for perhaps the Horde, who will sweep down and finally eliminate the people who killed so many of their number and forced them into humiliating camps for years on end. Or maybe the night elves will come instead, adamant in the belief that they will wipe out the last traces of arcane magic on the planet as well as their misguided brethren the Quel'dorei. "

" The murders will serve as a catalyst, as a microcosm for what will be happening across the whole continent in a few short years. The killings will sow fear and distrust amongst the populace, ally will turn on ally, neighbor against neighbor. Those not like themselves will all become potential murderers in their eyes, with the expulsion of the foreigners with their strange looks and their strange customs the only option to prevent more deaths. The people will also begin to question the competence of those who forced the races together in the first place, and it is in this questioning, _Muirdo_, " the dreadlord said, emphasizing the man's name, " that order begins to break down. That is the purpose of the murders. "

" And the ritual you have been preparing so carefully…? " the human servitor dared to ask. Suul chuckled at this, a dark, rumbling noise.

" The finale, the bright red curtain that comes down like an executioners axe and ends the play. It too, only will serve to amplify what already exists, what the murders will spark. Speaking of the murders, Muirdo, has the next one been selected? "

The cultist nodded his hooded head.

" Yes, great one. He has arrived just this afternoon with a caravan following the Gold Road from far up north. He will be given some advice to seek out a tavern that serves his kind and will leave there shortly after the second hour of the second watch due to an altercation with some veterans of thesecond war… "

"And on the streets of a city so very far from his home, he will lose his life, " a voice behind him interrupted.

The dreadlord and acolyte both looked to the doorway, in which stood a lithe female silhouette standing over six-and-a-half feet in height. A three-bladed moon glaive, its edges gleaming like liquid silver in the torchlight rose up to shoulder height, held in place by the figures' slender hand, its edges facing towards Suul. The dreadlord frowned at the weapon being pointed at him, but knew that while the night elf was insane, she was not stupid. He was in no danger.

" Are you sure you will be able to handle this one, Golonda? He is a very skilled warrior, not like the last one I had you kill… " the Nethrezim trailed off, looking past the crescent blades of her weapon of choice and into her pupil-less white eyes. Golonda suddenly slashed the air not inches from where Muirdo stood, the blades cutting through the air with a sharp 'whish'.

" You may well ask the cow how it figures its chances are against the butcher. If he stands between me and Tyrande, then he will die. "

" Remember the thing that I would have you retrieve for him once he is dead, and the note, " Suul added, holding up a commanding finger to her.

Golonda said nothing, slipping the moon glaive under her cloak and affixing it to the special metal forearm guard she wore on her right arm. She then turned a left the two of them with a swirl of her indigo cloak, disappearing into the gloom.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

A low fog had crept over the island fortress as night once again took hold of the land, seeping in from the ocean and blanketing the city in a grey haze. The city lamps were barely discernable if one stood a block away from it, and at two blocks they were little more than a yellow ball suspended over the damp streets. With only mild winds and the high walls of the city keeping most of even that at bay, Theramore had become a place where even those familiar with it could get easily lost. Dark gray clouds threatening rain had rolled in at dusk as well, shutting out the stars and the sliver of moon that would have shone that night. The night had cooled the air somewhat, thought the high humidity still kept most from enjoying the drop in temperature as their skin became coated with a thin sheen from the wispy moisture.

Two figures walked slowly and deliberately through the streets, one set of footfalls regular and nearly silent, the other marked by the clomping of thick leather on stone and a slight scrape every other step.

"I tell ye, lad, this be no weather for keeping watch on anything but the tankard of ale at the end of your arm. The killer wouldn't be able to see his mark even if he was about tonight. You're just torturing us both with damp clothes and tired legs."

Crys'annadath sighed, growing weary of the dwarf's complaints, though he did make a good point. A man could get ten paces ahead of them and simply vanish if a pursuit ever occurred, just as the fog could confound even a determined murderer's sense of direction. A loud peal of thunder suddenly rolled through the clouds above them, the pair stopping and listening.

"An' she'll be raining in a matter of minutes, by my reckoning. I won't be growing any more so I don't need a good soaking, if you catch my drift," Daghmor grumbled, rubbing his right leg to ease the muscles that had to strain to compensate for his damaged foot when he walked.

The warmage sympathized with the dwarf, his own legs aching, not used to so much exercise in a single day. What's more, as Crys grew tired, the pain from the magical addiction grew as well, changing from a dull ache to a sharp, icy splinter lodged in his lower abdomen. The clammy atmosphere had sapped his energy as well, the elf not realizing how much so until he stumbled and nearly fell, only Daghmor's steadying hand keeping him from the hard stone surface of the street.

"We're not the men we used to be, lad. No twenty mile forced marches through a downpour for the likes of us, not anymore. It'd be foolish to remain out here any longer than it takes to get you back to your tower."

"I…agree, my good friend. It has been a trying day for the both of us. A good night's rest and a little brandy will revive us for our duties in the morning. "

Leaning a little more on his short staff than he had been previously Crys longed for the comfort of his chambers and the familiar warming sensation of spirits in his belly that always melted the icy dagger of pain the addiction left there. Another crack of thunder rumbled across the heavens as the two started on their way to Greymere Tower, urging them on to reach their destination before the rain broke free of the clouds.

A tavern door was suddenly flung open, out spilling light and the sounds of a scuffle onto the damp Theramore street. Three burly figures staggered out, yelling protests in a guttural tongue at the ones who pushed them out. One of the figures whipped out a battle axe and brandished it, intending to step back inside. His two companions held him back though.

"Let me go! I will still that pig-skinned human's mouth for good!" the axe-wielder roared.

"No, Talgar! We did not come to pick fights! Remember the Warchief's warning…" one of the two blockers hissed, gripping the other orc with renewed vigor.

"Kosh-nalak! We endure a month's travel to reach this city and for what gain? To be insulted to our faces and not be able to defend our honor. To the Nether with the lot of them!"

The orc wielding the axe eventually relaxed, slipping the haft of the weapon through the loop on his belt angrily as his companions let him go.

"We should return to the caravan's encampment, we leave in the morning anyways," the third reminded them, starting to walk in the direction of the docks. The second followed, but Talgar remained where he was, breathing heavily past yellowed tusks and glaring at the tavern door.

"You coming?" one of the others called over his broad shoulder, pausing in mid-stride.

The one closest to him tried to grab at Talgar's arm, but he threw it aside with a violent motion.

"I have had enough of your care-taking, Hrosk, I've endured it the whole trip here. Leave me be, I will make my own way back without you minding me like a fretful mother."

Hrosk growled at the insult but then just snorted, "Suit yourself."

A clap of thunder roared above the orc's heads, causing them to look skyward.

"Maybe the spirits will send a shower to cool that hot head of yours," Hrosk commented to Talgar before turning and walking off into the mist-laden gloom, the third orc following. Talgar muttered a few choice oaths at the other's retreating form and struck off down an adjoining street.

The orc warrior tromped down the cobblestone street, face set in an angry mask, beefy green hands clenching and unclenching in a desire to break something. " Lousy, cowardly, nagging Hrosk, " the orc muttered under his breath, kicking a ceramic flowerpot set out on a door stoop and sending it tumbling down the way ahead of him, where it eventually shattered. Somewhere a dog barked, most likely in response to the sudden noise, though Talgar paid it little mind. Turning down a narrow street with a slight downward slope the orc's feet suddenly began to slip on the slick stone, his arms flailing to try and right himself. His effort was to no avail, the massively built warrior landing heavily on his rump with a discordant jingle of metal striking metal from his gear. Cursing Talgar started to stand back up, but suddenly felt the course black hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Someone was following him. A veteran of the second war, and also having fought with the Horde forces at Mount Hyjal after the exodus of the orcs from Azeroth, he knew to trust his instincts. His right hand slowly moved to the bandoleer across his chest while his left helped him to a crouch. Suddenly wheeling about on the balls of his feet Talgar emitted a short cry, right hand now holding onto a small axe balanced for throwing.

Nothing but mist met his yellow eyes.

Senses straining Talgar rose fluidly to his feet, axe still posed to throw. This mist was making him jumpy, that was all, not a sound to be heard but his own breathing and some rumblings of thunder. He had best return to the docks straight away, Talgar not knowing fear, but knowing caution when he was alone in a strange environment. Slipping the axe back into the leather bandoleer he continued his walk, but with a long, distance-eating stride, eyes continually scanning the shadows and the rooftops. Before long the sounds of waves lapping against shoreline and the creak and groan of timbers shifting could be heard, the sounds promising refuge amongst his own kind. Breathing a little easier as the street widened into a stone wharf, Talgar froze in his tracks, entire body tense as with a truly thunderous roar the clouds broke, sending a light shower to the earth which quickly became a torrent. Shaking his head at his own foolish anxiety Talgar strode towards the inviting orange-yellow glow of lanterns and a fire pit. A dry tent was awaiting him, and maybe Hrosk would be kind enough to shut his mouth long enough to let Talgar get some….

In the blink of an eye a tall shape seemed to form from the very mists before him, heavily cloaked and as tall as the orc himself stood. The unmistakable gleam of metal flashed briefly from under the figure's loose garb, making Talgar draw his battle axe with his right hand and a throwing axe in his left. The cloaked figure stood perfectly still, making no move to attack, but neither did it stand out of the warrior's way when he drew his weapons. The orc growled, an intimidating sound coming from a being that stood close to seven feet tall and weighed around three-hundred pounds.

" Stand aside, whoever you are, or I'll rip out your heart, " he rumbled.

A light, musical sound filled the air, Talgar taking a moment to realize that it was laughter! The figure was laughing at him!

"Now that's what I call ironic…" a distinctly female voice chuckled, taking a step towards him.

Talgar let his axe fly in a deadly, spinning arc as another peal of thunder shook the heavens.

There was a pounding, but it was not thunder. It was too regular, too focused in one direction…the door! Crys' eyes fluttered open as the sat up from his slouched position in one of the chairs by the hearth. Daghmor still slumbered, his booted feet propped up on the small round table, mud having sloughed off onto its once gleaming surface. Noting this with a small look of disdain the pounding came at the door again, forcing the elf stiffly out of the chair and hobbling over to the door. Quickly speaking the command word Crys flung open the door, a gust of rain-laden air striking him and a mailed fist almost doing the same. The young footman gaped, recovering his balance quickly. Outside, dark clouds and thunder still ruled the dawn skies, and while the rain had lessened somewhat, it still poured off the tower's roof in thick streams.

"Sir, Captain Strongshield wishes to see you at the docks as soon as possible," the youth explained breathlessly, apparently having run the entire way here through the downpour and wearing plate mail. "There's been another killing."

Crys frowned deeply in concern while a titanic yawn sounded behind him. Looking over his shoulder the warmage saw Daghmor stretching his stout limbs and then rubbing his eyes to clear the sleep from them.

"I be supposing that this means we won't have time for breakfast," the dwarf quipped.

Boots splashing through the many standing puddles that dominated the streets, Crys and Daghmor approached Theramore island's port. Both wore the garb they had on yesterday, neither time nor convenience allowing for anything else. Crys had, however, traded in his night blue cloak for one more suited to the wet weather, as well has having abandoned his short staff back at the tower to avoid drenching his hand and sleeve.

It was an elven marine's cloak, stitched seamlessly together from the thick hides of the seals found along Northrend's southern shores into a dull gray garment dappled with spots a shade darker long the bottom half of its length. Gold mixed with a small amount of strengthening steel made up the four rust-resistant clasps and the lengths of chain between them had held the cloak close to the torso of the wearer. Treated every few months with special oils, the cloak was nigh water-proof and worth its weight in gold in weather like this. The crest of the hood was made semi-rigid with the addition of a curved piece of boiled leather sewn there, so that the hood provided excellent protection for the wearer's head and also wouldn't obscure his vision, both critical in a sailor's line of work. It was from under this voluminous hood that Crys saw the crowd of guards and citizens who had gathered around what he assumed was the body. A pair of luckless footmen were charged with the task of keeping a sodden sheet between the crowd and the corpse, its length impaled on the tips of their halberds.

Crys spotted the white horsehair crest of Edward Strongshield easily enough, the paladin commanding his guards to try and keep the gawkers moving along to avoid a huge, immobile knot of people from forming in one of the busier districts of the city. To the one side of the crowd were several orcs, a rarity in Theramore, who occasionally shouted something in the paladin's direction. A footman moved to halt Crys' advance once he had shouldered his way through the crowd, but a call from Edward and the guard stepped aside. Behind the cloth barrier a crumbled body under a white sheet lay, a large dark stain leeching into the soaked white linen around where the corpses' torso was situated. A thin stream of cloudy water also trailed away from the body, what small amounts of blood where still leaking from the wounds draining away off the edge of the wharf, reminding Crys sickeningly of the fluids that drained out of gutted fish at the markets. There was something odd about the corpse that Crys couldn't put his finger on; odd protuberances in places where there shouldn't be; large, roughly treated leather boots on the feet sticking out from under the sheet. Edward gave Crys a curt nod of is helmeted head in greeting while seeming to completely ignore Daghmor's presence, then proceeding to fill the pair in on what information he had.

"A longshoreman spotted the body roughly half-an-hour ago, alerting the guards to its presence. We're not certain how long it was sitting there before it had been discovered, however, as the fog that had gripped the city last night could have hidden it for some time, as it was the worker had to trip over it to find it. In any case, he had bled for some time, the amount that was found around him and in the waters just over the ledge was considerable. We haven't been able to gather many details about the victim's life or the true extent of his injuries, but two things were made very obvious from the get-go," the paladin paused, shifting his gaze from the two of them, to the corpse, and back again.

"He was an orc, and his heart has been removed."

Crys reeled upon hearing this. Suddenly the odd size and shape of the shrouded body didn't seem so odd. That was also why there were orcs hanging around the scene.

"One less of them in the world's fine by me," Daghmor muttered quietly, spitting onto the already drenched street. The other two looked to the dwarf but said nothing, not finding enough reason to admonish his statement.

"I would like to examine the body," Crys said, gesturing in the direction of the corpse with his cowl. Edward nodded and gestured for a few more guards to form a bit of a wall so that the orc's companions could not see the state of the body.

Crys'annadath crouched while Edward peeled the shroud away from the body, the elf's features twisting in disgust as the orc's body was revealed. His revulsion had little to do with the orc's appearance though, having found the demonic visages of the Burning Legion far more unsettling. The orc had died a warrior, that much was certain, though the fight apparently hadn't lasted very long. A gash in the front of the orc's neck large enough that Crys could have stuck his hand into it (had he wanted to do such a thing) was the killing blow, no other marks other than it and the gouged torso were apparent. A parchment note had been pinned directly in the middle of the chest with a metal spike, the left edge of it soaked in the blood from the chest wound. ' No race, class or age will be spared ' it read in bold black letters, the ink starting to bleed from the moisture.

"The note was as you find it now, the guards having heard of what happened the last time and gave it a wide berth," Edward intoned. Crys called to mind a simple spell and with a few gestures it was cast. Nothing seemed to happen. He then reached down and lifted the parchment from the spike and tucked it under his cloak for safe-keeping, drawing a gasp from the paladin and the dwarf. When nothing happened the two of them released a deep breath of relief.

"Warn me when ye do such a thing again," Daghmor cursed, glowering at the elf.

"The body held no traces of magic, which would to have been present to cause it to reanimate like the previous victim. Additionally, the logistics of carrying a corpse around of this size to simply create another trap that would be expected by the guards anyways would be a waste of time. This was a simple matter of murder. Now, for the killing wound…" Crys explained nonchalantly.

His face still screwed up with distaste Crys leaned closer to the neck wound, seeing the various tubes and arteries, and probably even the spine, had all been sliced with a single vertical cut, the clean lines of the wound telling of a very sharp weapon, one that had dealt the wound and then been withdrawn without having to work the blade free by rocking it back and forth. "What could make a wound like this?" Crys mused aloud, looking next to the chest wound.

Four rougher cuts had sliced a square hole into the orc's torso, though the ragged flesh around the wound told the elf the killer had had a tougher time with the ribs. The heart had been cut a little by the brutal surgery as well, pieces of it still connected to the veins that linked it to the rest of the body. Bile rose in Crys' throat and he was distinctly glad that he hadn't eaten yet that day. He was no stranger to seeing bodies mangled by bladed weapons, but to so calmly force oneself to examine it in close detail was a world apart.

"Arcanite," a gravelly voice interjected into the warmage's thoughts. Daghmor had spoken it, peering at the wounds to verify his suspicions. "Aye, arcanite did this," he said again, nodding.

"Such a clean wound, slicing through even bone…?" Crys queried, arching an eyebrow at the dwarf. The rogue just shook his head in exasperation.

"You elves and your wood. Know nothing about metal. It's a light, but very durable type of nickel that can hold an edge keener than anything. Most say it's like this because a high source of magic nearby had warped the properties of the raw ore before it is mined."

" An arcanite weapon could have caused such a grievous wound? " Edward asked, also bending down a bit to both examine the wound and keep their conversation private.

Daghmor held out his right arm as he spoke, drawing a line down along the bicep with the fingers of his left hand.

"Give me an arcanite axe, and I'll chop through the thickest part of an armored gnoll's arm, with one hand, in one swing. The killer needn't even be very strong with one of those, just know where to hit," he explained, crossing his arms in satisfaction as he finished lecturing the other two on the merits of the metal.

Ignoring the dwarf's slightly bombastic deliverance, the warmage dared to peer even closer at the chest wound, steeling his will to do so without retching.

"The wound," Crys began, speaking to his companions while gesturing to the bloody hole,"was made with a single edged weapon, most likely arcanite if Daghmor is

correct.," he continued, drawing a dour look from the short rogue beside him.

"In the upper-most cuts, the wound should be longer, as a two-edged weapon like a dagger would create a tapering cut above the initial point of entry, but instead the skin is slightly wrinkled there, having slid along the thicker, blunt edge of the weapon."

"An arcanite knife?" the guard captain offered, twirling the tip of his handlebar moustache between steel-clad fingers in thought.

"A sickle? A scythe?" Daghmor added, thick eyebrows almost touching as he furrowed his brow in thought.

"Not a scythe. The weapon was thrown for the neck wound," Crys pointed out, rising to his feet. "It would end the fight quickly and quietly, negating the undoubtedly severe threat that the orc's battle axe posed," the elf gesturing to the large weapon still clutched in a death grip in the orc's right hand," that, and it would have been too clumsy to try and remove the heart while standing far enough away to wield scythe properly."

"Speaking of axes," Edward said, flipping the sheet back over the corpse and stepping past the two investigators.

The paladin walked with purpose, parting the crowd with ease that both his imposing size and the rank afforded to him. Crys and Daghmor followed in his wake, but the elf was suddenly stopped when a large green hand clamped onto his shoulder.

"Who did this? Who killed Talgar?" the large orc rumbled, his face dark with anger. Crys disliked being manhandled, but his discomfort was short-lived as a wooden club suddenly whacked the orc's elbow joint, the shock and pain casing the Horde member to retract his appendage.

"If ye want to lay another finger on my friend, you'll be going through me first," the dwarf warned, interposing himself between Crys and the orc and slapping his club lightly against his open palm.

The second orc growled like a wolf and started to draw a scimitar, but the first orc stayed his hand with a gesture.

"We awoke to find our companion dead, brutally killed in a city that was supposed to be filled with our allies. If such a thing occurred in Ogrimmar, you would feel the

same way," the first said with deliberate slowness, looking directly at Crys. The elf kept his expression neutral, sympathizing on some basic level with the warrior but not letting any of it show on his face, or in his voice.

"We're trying to determine who killed him now. You can help rather than hinder by accosting fewer investigators and answering some questions of mine once I am finished here."

His expression still one of simmering anger the orc simply nodded once and remained silent, leaving the two to continue walking.

They arrived shortly at a wooden piling with a single footman standing guard beside it, the sort used to moor ships once they were in port. Set into the piling was a small axe.

"This belonged to the orc, he had a brace of similar ones across his chest but it was cut away when the murderer removed the heart. He struck at his killer first, the assailant's counter-strike ending it, " Edward explained. Crys nodded, having seen the edges of the leather bandoleer peeking out from around the left shoulder and right abdomen. Crys looked back to the position of the corpse, then to the axe several times. Grasping the handle of the axe the elf gave it a sharp tug, the axe not budging.

"Hmmm," the warmage murmured while he concentrated, calculating something out in his head. "Twenty yards and with still enough force to bury it that deep into wood. That axe left the orc's hand moving very fast. Now, considering the fog last night, the range of engagement would have been around five yards, give or take, especially considering the precision of that first and only strike made by the killer," the warmage mused, tapping his chin with his index finger while he laid out his estimates.

"Which means?" Daghmor prompted.

"Which means, my good dwarf," Crys'annadath replied with a matter-of-factly tone,

"that we are dealing with one extraordinarily agile suspect, one capable of dodging out of the path of an axe thrown at point blank range, and who was able to deliver a counter-blow a fraction of a second afterwards."

Edward shook his head at the conclusion.

"That's not human. Even the quickest person I have ever met would have at the very least received a glancing wound from the axe, yet the blade is clean and the wood unstained, even considering the rain since then. The strike would have knocked the axe's path off as well, but you can trace a direct line between the corpse where it fell and this piling, which means there wasn't one."

Crys was glad for the paladin's input, all business when doing his duty, rather than the chatty oaf he seemed when they had first met. "Which means our killer either uses magic to enhance themselves, or is, as you said captain, not human."

Turning back to face the crowd, Crys spoke again, his blue eyes zeroing in on the two greens-skinned visitors to Theramore.

"Let's find out who this Talgar was in life, shall we?"

Some time later found Crys, Daghmor, Edward and Hrosk crammed into the circular base of a guard tower that over looked the bay, the orc perched on a stool while his remaining companion stood outside, keeping an ear open should his ally need help. The orc's tale was one of a night out drinking, having been told by a dock worker that it was one of the few bars in Theramore that wouldn't refuse to sell them booze out-right. The Muddy Murloc was the name of the establishment, Daghmor letting Crys know he knew the location of said tavern with a nod, the dwarf then continuing to fix the orc with an distrustful glare.

There was a fight with some former soldiers of the Alliance sometime around the middle of the night, and the three had been ejected into the street for being the cause of it. Talgar, in a fury over not being allowed to walk back into the bar and start breaking heads, had wandered off on his own.

"He was a very prideful and short-tempered sort, and I strongly suspect the reason I was sent with him was to try and curb his violent tendencies during our trip. He resented that. I shouldn't have let him go off by himself, I failed him," the orc named Hrosk berated himself, stamping a foot onto the tower's floor. He then looked at his questioners hard before speaking again.

"I have answered your questions, now you answer mine. How did he die? Was he surrounded by the soldiers from the bar and overwhelmed? Or did he die with a knife in his back? I suspect the last, as even with the thunder and rain last night, I would have been able to hear the clash of steel and cries of the wounded."

Crys thought about how to answer that question, surprising himself a little that he even was spending the time trying to sugar-coat his response.

"He died in battle, and it was not from behind, but from the fore. You heard no sounds of battle because it was over before it had even really started. Your former companions' axe missed its target, while his assailant's weapon did no such thing, killing him instantly by striking his throat. His heart was then taken, for what reason, we do not know as of yet. We do know that his killer was not a soldier from this tavern, and that your friend died as part of a string of murders that has been occurring before you arrived here, and therefore was not racially motivated."

The orc listened to the wizard's speech with a range of emotions, from disbelief, anger, and finally sullen acceptance.

"He will have to be buried on the mainland, his body would not survive the trip back to Durotar," the orc shook his head in regret.

"I will have the remains of the deceased wrapped up and prepared for your journey before you leave," Edward said in a polite tone, though it was little other than just that.

The orc said nothing in response, getting to his feet and sighing a great sigh from a pair of expansive lungs, making a move to leave the tower.

The sound of someone clearing their throat was audible then, heard above the traffic outside and the rain pounding down on the tower's roof. All turned to regard a young page, dressed in a spotless, albeit wet, uniform of a white tunic and pants over which a bright blue tabard had been placed, decorated with the elaborate 'L' of Lordaeron. A round, shapeless cap covered his head, dyed the same shade as the tabard with a large white feather pinned to the left side with a golden brooch. Auburn locks fell perfectly straight from under the cap, curling inwards and upwards at the very tips. Before anyone could say a word, the page reached under his tabard and retrieved a scroll case composed of glistening silver with golden caps shaped into ram's head's adorning each end. A blue ribbon was tied around the middle. The page walked up and presented it to Hrosk, who looked at the page like a bear would at a rabbit upon finding such a creature in its den after waking.

" Sir, I have been sent as a representative of the ruling officials of Theramore, as well as at the bequest of Lady Jaina Proudmoore herself, to present you with this letter of written apology at the loss of your companion to be delivered to your Warchief upon your return to Orgrimmar. Know that the Alliance Assembly is putting forth all its effort to finding and subsequently punishing the person or persons responsible for such a heinous act, and no stone shall be left unturned in our pursuit of them. The Alliance Assembly would also like to extend the courtesy of a proper soldier's burial at a location of your choosing, in addition to this small gift of coin to ease your return trip to your homeland. "

The page then produced a small sack bulging with coins, which he also handed to the orc.

Hrosk stood speechless, as did everyone else gathered around the tower's entrance. Crys expected some sort of apology, but Jaina was certainly making sure Thrall knew that she wouldn't have allowed Talgar's death if she could have helped it. The orc, his teeth showing in something between a snarl and a smile, handed the bag of coin back to the page, who accepted it without a word.

"In the interest of keeping the treaty between the Alliance and the Horde, I will take this to Warchief Thrall, but we will make our own way home, and Talgar will be buried by his own people in a place of our choosing. My…thanks to your lady for her offer," he managed to say before stepping out into the rain, past all of them. The two orcs then made for their caravan's encampment and started preparing to depart, leaving them to their own work.

The page watched the orcs departure with only a slight interest once they were out of hearing range he turned to face Crys squarely.

"Governess Proudmoore also requests your presence once you are finished gathering clues pertinent to this murder."

With this the page wheeled about smartly, and began walking, eventually rendezvousing with an enclosed carriage waiting for him at one of the main streets connected to the dock area. Edward bowed his head to the remaining two and began to walk away as well.

"Gentlemen, I have duties awaiting me, as do yourselves. If you have any further need of me my men will know where to find me. Good hunting."

Crys looked down to his dwarven companion, the rogue meeting his gaze evenly.

"Well, my friend, shall we convey ourselves to the drinking establishment in question and put forth our inquiries to the barkeep?"

The dwarf regarded the cloudy skies before responding.

"It'll be closed, with the owner asleep. We won't get much there this time of day."

"Come, come, my doubtful friend. They will open for us, and provide us with _any _information we require," the warmage shook his index finger at Daghmor, his tone quickly losing its jovial tone and coming to possess a hard edge to it by the time his sentence was complete.

"Aye," the dwarf nodded, hand reaching down to pat the polished cudgel at his hip,

"they'll be opening for us."


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

"That be it, my lad. The Muddy Murloc, one of the finer lower class establishments. Not a favorite of the dwarven populace. No dwarf barmaids for one…" Daghmor explained, twisting a portion of his black beard with a stubby finger and looking wistfully to some place beyond their current location. With the thought of stocky dwarf females with low-cut bodices circling in his head, Crys shuddered lightly and rapped on the door.

"Nay, nay, lad. They'll never hear you like that. You have to make it sound like the world's coming to an end just outside their door if you want them to think its important," the rogue admonished, walking up to the door and thumping it several times quite hard with his thick-soled boots, enough to make the hinges rattle. Sure enough, a few moments later a faint voice called from within. Nodding to the elf in satisfaction they waited.

A small brass slot set into the door at about eye level for a human slid open, a pair of bleary green eyes peering out at them…well, at Crys anyway, as the dwarf was practically invisible at that angle.

"What you want? We're closed, it's not even past the third watch yet. Come back later. Much later," the eyes complained, the eye slit starting to close.

"We are with the city guard, and would question you about a murder of one of your patrons last night," the warmage responded in a stern voice. As if verifying the "we" of that statement the eyes moved around finally coming to rest on Daghmor.

"Yer not with the guard, I'd recognize that dwarf anywhere."

"My companion is acting as a guide currently, and if you feel its necessary to verify my authority with the governess at this early hour, you'll find her wrath more unpleasant than my own," the elf scowled, while secretly delighted. The barkeep could very well just be reluctant out of general crabbiness, or he could be trying to delay their entry for as long as possible to cover up something within.

"No one will be bothering the governess with something like this, especially at this hour. I think the lot of you are trying to rob me. Even you elves have fallen on hard times, and I wouldn't put it past either you or that rough-looking dwarf to do such a thing. Come back with someone wearing the colors and emblem of blessed Lordaeron or don't come back

at all!"

With this declaration the eye slit slammed shut with a metallic 'clack'.

"She's a solid door, I'll attest to that," the dwarf hummed after they regarded each other in the wake of the rejected entry, "it'd take a coupla dwarves with a ram to bring her off her hinges. We may just have to go get the guard and bring them here."

"It would take a pair of dwarves with a ram, or one elf with the proper spell," the wizard corrected, already weaving his fingers in a deliberate pattern. A trail of green energy began to follow his index fingers, and with a final gesture, the light leapt from his digits and onto the door, snaking its way across the seams and around the handle before vanishing. A second later there was a loud series of metal clicks as the door's apparently large number of locks unbolted in rapid succession, a panicked cry coming from the occupant as the door suddenly flung open with great force. The occupant of the room stumbled backwards, sputtering and cursing before landing quite soundly on his rump, his right arm becoming entangled with the legs of a bar stool. The wispy hair that surrounded his shining pate like thin, dark clouds about a round mountain peak were in disarray from his slumber, the middle-aged man wearing only a pale blue night shirt over his well-padded form.

"A handy spell, that is," Daghmor admitted quietly as the odd pair stepped through the now open portal.

"It is, especially when one forgets his house key," Crys admitted, drawing a slight smile from his stocky companion.

"Damned magical elves and their dwarven thugs! Begone with you, leave here!

Guards!" the man shrieked, staggering to his feet after freeing his arm from the stool and back-pedaling frantically.

The wizard closed the door once they were through, pulling the hood back from his angular features, while the dwarf set upon the barkeep and forced him to sit on one of the round tables that occupied the middle of the common room. The man was beside himself with panic, all of his bluster stolen when the solid door between himself and them disappeared. Crys suddenly advanced on the human, one slender finger pointed like a knife, so close the elf could smell the familiar sour odor of alcohol on the man's breath quite keenly. The barkeep recoiled, turning his gaze from the dwarf whom he had considered the more immediate threat.

"Listen, my good merchant, I need not ask you these questions verbally, I do so as a courtesy. If I wanted, I could open up your mind as easily as I did that door, but it does tend to damage things in the process, and we wouldn't want that, would we?" Crys growled. The man shook his head slowly, quivering ever so slightly at the prospect.

"Good, good," the warmage soothed, lowering his hand and moving away from the intimate distance he was holding and glad for it. The smell would linger in his nostrils for hours, he was sure.

"I come, as I said earlier, to question you about the events in your bar last night that lead to the discharge of three unusual patrons into the foggy night streets, one of which turned up dead this very morning."

The barkeep calmed down a bit once his mental or physical well-being was no longer being immediately threatened. Daghmor remained close though, hand on his cudgel should the man try something hasty. He seemed to ponder the elf's words, using the time to steady his breathing and wipe away some of the sweat that was beading up on his brow.

"The-the only unusual patrons we had last night were three stinking orcs from some caravan," the man finally answered, gaze moving back and forth between dwarf and elf.

"And your low opinion of these patrons is not strong enough to turn down their gold, obviously," Crys said, slowly pacing the wooden floor with a thoughtful expression on his face.

"They'd just be needing more of it than your regulars, eh barkeeper?" Daghmor intoned before lapsing into a watchful silence once again.

The fat merchant nodded. "Aye, that I do. In these hard times after the war, every gold coin counts."

"But not all of your patrons shared this pragmatic view. They took exception to these orcs sharing their favorite watering hole, and started trouble," Crys asked, continuing the line of questioning.

"Nay! By my reckoning it was that one orc, the one with the axes cross his chest that started it. Called Theramore a rat's nest, inhabited by mice and not men."

"And this lead to their removal from the premises," Crys prompted.

"What would ye have done? Turned out three damn orcs, or twenty regulars into the streets?"

Crys nodded to concede the point. "No one followed after these orcs? No one looking for a little payback for their inflammatory comments?"

The barkeep only shrugged. "I don't know my customer's state of mind when they leave this place. No one left here for some time after the orcs had been tossed out. With the fog last night, I doubt they'd have been able to follow the green-skinned brutes unless they left right after. How long are you going to keep drilling me like this?" the barkeep sulked, having regained some of his surliness.

Daghmor's hand was a blur, whipping the club from his belt and striking the table just next to the human's hand with a very audible 'crack' of wood on wood. The merchant jumped, emitting a short cry of alarm and belatedly drawing his hand back. "We'll questioning you till we're through, got it?" the rogue threatened, a sour look on his face.

The merchant looked sufficiently cowed after that, allowing Crys time to gesture Daghmor over to a private conversation by the bar, their backs turned to him.

"What do you think?" the elven wizard asked his stocky companion. Daghmor looked back to the once-again perspiring human.

"He's about as blubbering and blandly informative as you'd expect a barkeeper to be."

"Just enough, wouldn't you think?" Crys affirmed with a sly smile. Daghmor nodded again.

"He's telling us the truth, or a version of it, but omitting details. We'll see if he cracks under a little pressure, if not, I have other means," the elf finished, turning to face the man once again.

Daghmor swaggered up to the man, cudgel in hand. "Me friend and I, we don't think you're telling the truth. We talked to the orcs and their story tells a little differently."

The barkeep regarded Daghmor with a look that mixed fear and frustration quite well.

"And who would you believe? Me, or a stinking orc who would want nothing more than for a human to pay for his friend's death?"

"Or maybe we be believing that you're covering up for some pals of yours who decided to single out an orc for some payback last night. Like maybe there were some outside the bar waiting for them, trailing along behind until they found a nice quiet spot to gut him."

"You couldn't prove that!"

"You'll prove whatever needs to be proven, with the right persuasion," Daghmor sneered, his club lashing out and rapping the merchant across the knuckles. The human retracted his injured hand, looking at the dwarf with renewed fear.

"Tell us who your friends were, and we'll go talk to them, not to you. The two unpleasant customers who woke you up early in the morning will be gone, and you'll be able to forget all about them," Crys added, advancing on the seated merchant as well.

"Their names!" Daghmor roared, striking the man's shin with a blow meant to cause more pain than damage. The merchant twitched like a cowering dog, but then did something that surprised Crys only because of its suddenness. The merchant fixed the elf with a hard stare, a core of inner strength within the terrified, quivering form of a self-serving merchant. The looked passed as quickly as it came, however, so rapidly Crys wasn't completely sure that he had seen it. The man who hid behind the façade had shown itself for just a moment, a man who was willing to participate in the butchering of an orc, or any other who were deemed enemies by his peers, and who was willing to put up with physical pain to protect those peers.

"Tell us…!" the dwarf bellowed again, but his club was held back by Crys' hand.

"Enough, Dagh. He was telling the truth. He's not our man," the warmage said. The black-bearded dwarf retracted his weapon and merely glared at the merchant.

"Please understand what we did was for the benefit of Theramore as a whole. Good

day." With that the pair left the tavern, closing the door behind them, which was promptly locked a few moments later.

"Who were they?"

"Said they were working for the city guard. Wanted to know about the murder last night."

"What did you tell them?"

"What they wanted to hear, what I was supposed to tell them. You could have heard that well enough yourself."

"No passed notes, no mouthed words?"

"I'm not fool enough to go against _his_ plans, nothing they could have done could be worse than what would have been done had I said different than I did."

"Fair enough. I shall inform the master that the guard is on the killer's trail."

"It's likely he already knows, but do so anyways. They are just pebbles in his path, of no consequence."

These were the voices that sounded out within the depths of Crys's mind, sounding like they originated from right behind his eyes. The first speaker had a whispery voice and a superior tone, the second was the barkeep that they had just interrogated. There was then the sounds of booted feet on wooden blanks and the muted sounds of the merchant rubbing his injuries and cursing under his breath.

There was a tugging, a physical summoning back to himself, and Crys' eyes suddenly blinked open, once again outside in the rain and no longer surrounded by the sounds of the tavern's interior. Daghmor had pulled him from his scrying, his magical eavesdropping using only his sense of hearing. This was the Sorcerous Sight, the transference of his hearing or his sight to another location apart from his body.

"What did you hear, lad?" the black-garbed rogue inquired.

"It seems we are on the right trail, my friend, and that these murders have more backing than we had first anticipated. I have an important meeting with Governess Proudmoore to keep, but I doubt even she is up this early. We will return to the tower, perhaps engage in a few more hours sleep, and set out near the end of the fourth watch to the council chambers…after breaking our fast at that inn we dined at last night, " Crys was quick to add, seeing the protest ready to spring from Daghmor's mouth. Nodding in satisfaction, the dwarf and elf turned their sights back on Greymere Tower, and a dry, comfortable chair to snooze in.

The rain and the early hour kept the foot traffic down, but as it stood it took Crys almost an hour to get to the council building, which looked even more stern and unfriendly when framed by gray clouds. The sun would be just rising now, if it could have been seen, though the elf was sure that Jaina was up and around at this early hour, her duties allowing nothing more than a short night's sleep he was sure.

The rain had relented somewhat, coming down now as more of a drenching spray than heavy drops, and a lightening of the cloud cover held a small promise of seeing blue sky sometime later in the day. Crys alked alone, having left the dwarven rogue on a comfortable stool at the Plucked Gander, seeing little need to drag his limping friend across Theramore to merely sit in an antechamber while the Governess and he spoke.

He was admitted entry after his identity was confirmed, the heavy, hooded cloak he wore shed and given to an attendant just inside the front foyer. He followed along the same route he had taken the day previous, arriving at the antechamber with the heavily armored guards and the doors leading to Jaina's office and the council chambers.

To Crys' mild surprise, one of the double doors to the council chamber was open, and a sweeping gesture from one of the flanking guards closest to the open portal permitted the elf access. The chamber was quite large and circular in shape, with thick stone columns spaced evenly along the outer wall of the room, each bearing the coat-of-arms of a different kingdom or faction in the Alliance. Small formations of quartz crystal, chiseled carefully from their rocky perches in caverns and enchanted to give off a pure white luminescence bobbed slowly up and down over golden bowl-shaped sconces, giving the room its light.

The room was sparsely furnished aside from the large wooden table dominating the middle of the floor, shaped like the iris of an eye, but with the outer-most tips cut off squarely, creating a place for someone to sit at both ends comfortably. The high-backed chairs flanking the table, elaborately carved with images of dragons sat empty now, save for one the furthest from the chamber doors. It was there that Jaina Proudmoore sat, quietly dining on her breakfast with her left hand, while her right scribbled notations onto crisp vellum, occasionally stopping to either take a bite of food, or read something further in a large tome set on a small wooden pedestal upon the tabletop.

Crys felt somewhat guilty for bringing such news to her while she ate, but by the looks of things, a meal alone and uninterrupted was not a common occurrence for the arch-wizard anyways. When his footfalls ceased, his position roughly five feet from her, he was struck again by her proud beauty, her determination. Crys tried not to stare.

She dined from a selection laid out on several small platters, one holding spiced sausages enrobed in a golden, flaky pastry, steam still rising from their surface. Another platter held sliced and whole fruits, including some that Crys had never seen before, undoubtedly native to Kalimdor, and the third a small mountain of fresh rolls possessing a delicate honey smell to them, in all likelihood carried directly from a baker's oven to the building for her meal specifically. The food looked exquisite, one of the few perks afforded to one who was on call all hours of the day and night, and upon whose slender shoulders rested the future of the human race.

While she penned more words onto her paper a few loose strands of golden hair slipped from behind her ear, partially obscuring her fair countenance as if trying to hide her face from his eyes. She was dressed in a simple yet elegant gown, made of burgundy velvet with purple ribbon woven into the hem and sleeves. A tiara made of spidery strands of platinum set with winking sapphires was apparently her only adornment, yet was more striking for its understated simplicity than if gold and jewels literally draped her form.

The awkward silence of his standing there must have finally become keen enough for Jaina to sense, her ice blue eyes swinging up to meet his, her hand abandoning the quill she wrote with and her body sitting up straight in her magnificent chair.

The look she gave him then was not one of a superior distractedly ready to receive information from an underling, no, it was something much more familiar, more intimate. It was a look that seemed to suddenly drain all of the moisture from Crys' throat, to cause his heart to flutter like a trapped bird against the cage of his ribs for a beat or two. The look passed quickly, the eyes losing that openness they shared with his as she very quickly became Governess Proudmoore, grand ruler of the Alliance remnants once again.

What a beautiful child we would have together, the elf thought dreamily, suddenly aware the onus was on him to speak first and he hadn't said a thing for several seconds.

"Good-good morning, Governess. I hate to interrupt your meal and your work, yet I have the feeling that it is constant throughout the day…your work, that is, not…your meal, of course," Crys stammered, clamping his mouth shut after so quickly losing control of his tongue. He mentally cursed himself, feeling like some awkward boy trying to talk to someone he was infatuated with, which wasn't too far from the truth.

"Quite alright," she soothed, a slightly puzzled look on her face, "it was I who summoned you. I trust you have something to report?"

"Yes, your ladyship, I do."

With this Crys dove into his findings, once on the gruesome subject his boyish discomfiture evaporated. Jaina listened intently, not touching her cooling food nor penning anything further on her papers. Obviously this case was of growing concern to her. Crys lost his train of thought for a moment as he then realized, about half-way through his speech, why he had received such an inviting look from her when she first laid eyes on him.

For an instant, just a short moment in time, he must have looked more than a little bit like Arthas, the Arthas that she was familiar with growing up, not the one who betrayed his father, his paladin order, and later turned his kingdom into a giant graveyard, all in the name of the Lich King. The Athas that she was most likely falling in love with before the Scourge arrived. It was yet another possible path a life could have taken, cut mercilessly short by the undead hordes that had come to Azeroth's shores. Crys felt more than a little jealous that the look was not for him, but quickly reminded himself that it was likely not him who was suffering the most from that moment of mistaken identity.

The elf finished his report quickly and concisely, looking out the square-paned windows that occupied the majority of the chamber's further wall when he was finished, letting her digest it all.

"I shall have the owners of the Muddy Murloc covertly watched from now on, should they be used for any sort of cover-up in the future. I trust you have some leads to follow up on?' she asked.

Crys shrugged helplessly. "I have some lines of inquiry, but with still no eye witnesses or a pattern to work with, I can only do so much."

"Do whatever is necessary to bring this investigation to a close as soon as possible," Jaina reminded him in a no-nonsense tone.

Through a recessed doorway off to the side of the chamber, one of the blue-tunic wearing pages stepped quietly through and approached the two speakers. The boy whispered something into the arch-wizard's ear as she leaned closer to hear. Nodding she took up a folded green napkin and daubed away any crumbs that might occupy the corners of her mouth and set it down on her half-finished meal. With a wave of her hand another half-dozen attendants filed through the door, efficiently and swiftly removing any trace that a meal was taken there.

"I have a meeting with a very important ambassador from Nighthaven shortly. He has come to see what can be done about the addiction that ravages your people, as well as trying to maintain the loose alliance that our kingdoms share. He may even allow a Moon Well to be constructed on Theramore…" she trailed off, letting the impact of those words sink in. Crys almost jumped like a mule being offered a carrot, but managed to restrain his emotions, mixed as they were. Moon Wells were like miniature versions of the Sun Well, providing the night elves with life-sustaining mana, and could do the same for high elves, their racial cousins, albeit in a much smaller area. To not have to feel the pain of the addiction…

"I would owe them nothing," the elven wizard said finally, spitting out the last word like a curse and making a cutting motion with his open hand. The Kaldorei looked upon their arcane-wielding brethren with the same guarded contempt you would show a drunk known for violence staggering your way. It was the pursuit of their studies that finally forced the Quel'dorei, or 'High Born' to sail across the sea to make landfall on Azeroth thousands of years ago, where they were free to do as they pleased away from their paranoid oppressors. Such paranoia wasn't completely unfounded, though, as it was this same single-minded pursuit of power that lured the Burning Legion to the world thrice in a row.

Jaina was taken aback by the vehemence of his answer, but nodded in acquiesce. Crys was turning to leave when a hesitant question drifted to his pointed ears from the woman behind him.

"The…addiction. What is it like? I don't mean to pry, but,"

Crys turned his head but not his body, looking at her from the corner of his eye.

"Imagine cooking and serving food all day, every day, while you yourself are starving,"

Not waiting to receive her response he started towards the double doors leading out of the room.

A Moon Well! Here! The thought both enticed and repulsed the warmage as he traveled down the corridor. Such a thing was an amazing concession the part of the night elves, most of whom would just as soon see the Quel'dorei finally laid to rest forcefully, thus ending yet another potential beacon for the Legion to follow. Crys didn't even want to give the thought any more attention, as it caused such turbulent emotions to rise up within him. He would cast it out of his mind, focus on his trip back to the inn and what he was going to do next in his investigation.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as Crys looked up from his own internal conversation and saw two Kaldorei ascend the last step and turn around the corner, walking straight towards him. The ambassador Jaina spoke of, it seemed.

The male was old, that evident from the subtle clues that most other races missed, just assuming that all elves never changed upon reaching adulthood. It wasn't so much a physical difference, more of an air or aura about the person. A being who has lived for over ten millennia tends to carry themselves differently than those who have seen only a handful of decades, or centuries. Despite his hatred of night elves, Crys couldn't help but feel awed in the presence of someone who was alive when the world was still in its infancy.

He was tall, as most night elves were, in a way that make orcs seem stocky in comparison. His hair bound in a single braid of impressive length and looped around his shoulders like a mantle, he was clothed in rough-spun viridian robes with brown leather around the collar, cuffs and hem. Unbowed by age he still walked with a staff, which seemed to be made of intertwined drift wood with a small cage-like opening at the top. Inside this wooden prison sat a small point of bluish-white light, as if a fragment of a star sat in residence there.

His companion was slightly shorter, but still would tower over Crys, and there was no understated power in her movements like her superior, there was only a lithe grace and a hard, distrustful mask on her face. White eyes twitched and fixed on him as soon as they rounded the corner, her violet skin crinkling around the corners of her almond-shaped yes and along her smooth brow in a scowl. Her night blue hair was considerably shorter than her companions, but still reached down to her knees, and was lustrous in a way that his had not been for many years, Crys was sure. Most of what she wore was covered in a dark purple cloak, but she was most likely armed. The male's gaze was considerably less hostile, the sort of pitying look someone would have on their face when passing by a waif on the streets. The wizard bristled under both their gazes, trying to keep from yelling something very satisfying and unpleasant their way. The elder male nodded softly as he passed by the wizard, a slight smile on his lips, a smile that the high elf could not, try as he might, misconstrue as one of smug superiority. Rounding the corner that they had just come around themselves, Crys glanced back to see that the female had not taken her eyes off him for a second, even looking back over her shoulder as they continued on their way.

Descending the staircase Crys suddenly stopped, leaning up against the wall and closing his eyes. He envisioned the antechamber, shutting out his other senses except for his keen hearing. In the darkness behind his shut eyes he no longer heard the soft sounds of the staircase, but the muted conversation in Darnassian taking place just outside the council chamber.

"Your gaze would have stopped a Wildkin in its tracks, Sharleste. Must you glare so whenever we pass a Quel'dorei by? It does nothing but hurt what I am trying to do here. "

"I saw the look in his eyes. He was a wizard besides, who knows what foul magicks he could have been channeling as we passed. We can never be too careful around their kind."

"That is just the sort of rigid thinking that I had hoped I was steering you away from. If a dog misbehaves, you do not beat it, or it will never obey again. Nor do you allow it free reign, either. Stern discipline tempered with compassion is what is needed to help our cousins over-come their dependence on the dark magic. It all begins with understanding, Sharleste. "

"Yes, Shan'do. I will try harder in the future."

With this the pair were admitted to the chamber, and Crys recalled his senses back to his body, not wanting to chance Jaina sensing his magical intrusion. A misbehaving dog? Is that how he was seen, is that how centuries of dedication to their dangerous and powerful craft was viewed? Disgusted by the whole incident Crys stormed out of the building, snatching his cloak from the hands of the attendant waiting near the door without a word.

Outside the misty rain continued to fall, drenching the honor guard sent with the ambassador who loitered around the building's wide steps. They were six in number, all Sentinals, the female warriors who rode into battle atop tamed yet still ferocious nightsaber panthers. White eyes lacking pupils all fixed on him from under the smooth, hawk-nosed helms they all wore, as well as the amber eyes of the panthers. All quiet conversation stopped as the elf wizard made his way down the steps, icy stares keeping him self-conscious and eager to be gone from their collective sight. Some of the nearest panthers growled as he passed, a like sound would have come past the curled lips of the Sentinals if they were capable of it.

"Demon's dog," one of them said in Darnassian when he had just passed, obviously meant to be heard, but most likely not understood.

Crys paused just long enough to say "Ignorant fossil," in the night elf tongue before walking on, seeing the Sentinel's expression go from shocked to enraged in a heart-beat. There was the keen ring of metal being drawn and a hiss from her nightsaber mount, Crys whirling about, the fingertips of his right hand encased in a white glow. The two regarded each other intensely for a few moments, the Sentinel's moon glaive glimmering with deadly promise in the dim light, and the wizard's mouth drawn into a thin line, ready to complete the spell and send searing bolts of energy at the night elf guard. After a few moments their stare down ended bloodlessly, the tri-bladed weapon once again returning to its holder, and the white magical light winking out from the tips of Crys' fingers.

About to turn around and continue his journey back to the tavern, something else held Crys in place, a thought suddenly occurring to him. Glancing back at the Sentinels again, more specifically where the moon glaive had disappeared from view. Nodding once to himself as if reaching an internal conclusion, the elf hastily departed.

Some time later the heavily cloaked warmage walked through the door of the Plucked Gander, Daghmor turning in his stool to greet him, a tankard up to his lips.

"Ah, lad. Back at last. How did your meeting go?"

Crys pulled the hood from his head with a light shake of blonde locks, walking up to the dwarf and gazing into his eyes as he spoke.

"The murder weapon. I think I know what the murder weapon is."


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

The night was clear, the rains of the day having passed onto the coast, giving the often arid soil of southern Kalimdor a good soaking and doubtlessly miring at least one traveler's wagon. There was the clean smell of ozone blowing with the gentle sea wind, and the glass-still puddle of water that still clung to the streets reflected the bright half-moon and the winking stars above. Below the streets, in the tunnels burrowed by the dwarves who had built Theramore and had been then abandoned, in a small cell barely able to fit her, a long-limbed, reclining figure twitched. Golonda tossed about on her rough wooden cot, the screams of the dying echoing in her mind as she was once again forced to view the macabre parade of images that composed her nightmares, burned irrevocably into her mind by their traumatic origins.

She was always one who understood the difference in power. You had it or you did not. Power over life and death danced long the edge of a keen blade, in the muscles of two combatants locked in a struggle, in the fortitude needed to overcome a magical assault. It was the abuse of power that made criminals, and it was the side of justice that would always have to remain strong lest it too fall prey to the lawless. She became a warden to punish the wrongdoer, to once again reinforce the laws that bound her society together. She also found, in the course of her training all those millennia ago, that she was a superbly capable warrior, truly the proper tool of justice to be used against dangerous law-breakers. Her vision and her skills earned her a prized position alongside Maeiv Shadowsong, who was in charge of guarding the Barrow Prison, a subterranean jail that housed the most ruthless and dangerous criminals that Kaldorei society had ever seen.

At first she was honored by the position, able to focus on keeping the worst of the worst away from the rest of the world, and working beside the capable and focused Warden Shadowsong. However, as the centuries passed, the shine dulled from the prize that was her post, but her dedication never wavered. This was who she was, what she was. If she could not guard the likes of Illidan, who could?

Things started to occur to the then young Golonda. Things like most of the others present in the prison were usually lacking in the discipline that she herself demonstrated. A century was nothing to a night elf, yet after such a sort span of time others started to become sloppy, threatening to compromise the security of their facility. Golonda spoke to Maeiv and the senior warden agreed that some action would have to be taken. The Under-warden then began a rigorous series of tests and training regimes, in the end tightening security, but also earning her the ire of those beneath her. Golonda was stung by their lack of enthusiasm and jokes circulating behind her back, finding the fruit of her labors far less sweet than she had hoped. She began to resent her subordinates, withdrawing from them until she was as unapproachable as the head warden herself, even though she was supposed to be the link between the warden and the guards. The changes were subtle and slow, forming as decades turned to centuries, and then millennia, but were all the stronger because of it.

Golonda despised them for their revelry, their time spend in idle games and distractions. She continued to push herself harder and harder, seeking the perfection that she knew she was capable of in the martial field while her fellows indulged in gossip and what carnal pleasures could be found with the druidic males all asleep in dens scattered across Ashenvale. Shadowsong rebuked those who were lax in their duties, but she rebuked Golonda too, for she had become too hard-bitten, and was walking a path that could only lead to a mental collapse. She was ordered to curb her personal training and too use her off-duty time tending the barrow gardens. Doing so under protest she nevertheless submitted to the order, a sullen Under-warden Silvernight tending small shrubs while she should have been stalking the prison's many halls, watching for intruders or escapees.

It was in these forced forays to the gardens, however, that lead to that meeting between Golonda and Aweldessa. If Golonda was the brutal right hand of justice, then Aweldessa was the gentle left, healing and forgiving the wounds of the past. She was a warrior, like they all were, yet bore such a gentle spirit that Golonda found it impossible to conceive of Awel taking a life. Her lush green hair and caring eyes drew the Under-warden in a gentle trap against which her combat training availed her nothing. Perhaps there was something to this balance of duty and life. Perhaps Golonda had pushed herself and others too hard. Together, they knew nothing but contentment and peace, the once harsh Under-warden mellowed by her gentle companion and finding pleasure in life again.

But those countless nights of bliss and love came to an end when Tyrande Whisperwind broke into the prison. There was chaos as reports flooded in that they were under attack by their own people, that some demonic madness had seized their brethren who now came underground to release their fellow miscreants. It was surrounded by the sounds of running feet, of distant screams, and shouted orders that Golonda and Aweldessa parted ways for the last time. Golonda wanted to crush her lover against her breast and never let her go, to keep her safe, but she hadn't worked so hard and endured so much to throw away her duty now, and so they went their separate ways.

The fight was valiant, but in vain. Tyrande actually freed hardened criminals from their rightful place behind iron bars to aid her in slaying their jailors, all in the name of releasing one elf who she believed would aid them against the Burning Legion. And to think there were some who later called Golonda mad….

Done with her duties of locking down the southern wing of the jail behind massive iron gates she used her warden ability to blink, or teleport short distances, to the other side and hasten to Aweldessa's side. She was supporting Carfax, the Keeper of the Grove who was in charge of growing the prison's food and maintaining the small groves that were the only connection to the wilderness that they all had walked in so long ago. Not even Golonda's mighty stride could carry her to her love's side fast enough, and the battle was long over when the Under-warden finally arrived.

The Keeper lay dead, his mighty centaur body riddled with arrows and oozing cuts. A son of the forest demi-god, his powers were formidable, and he could have continued to tend Ashenvale forever, but now the only purpose he could serve the lands was fertilizing the ground with his corpse. He wasn't the only one dead however, not by far. Night elf bodies littered the area, their blood soaking into the grove's soil, spattered on the delicate flowers that Awel and Golonda had tended together, on the trunks of the trees that had given them the fruit to eat at their meals. It was carnage. Fearing the worst, her breath coming in rapid gasps and mouth agape the Under-warden stumbled amongst the bodies, looking for Aweldessa. Elune, Cenarius, please anyone or anything listening, let her be alive!

Golonda's search ended abruptly, the warden sliding to a stop as she dropped to her knees, dry sobs already racking her body as she reached down and cradled Awel's still, bloody form in her arms. She had died from an arrow through the throat, a white-fletched one, and there was a large patch of burnt flesh around the wound, telling the bereaved elf that it was the moon priestess Tyrande Whisperwind and her enchanted arrows that had slain her love. The solitary night elf wailed, lifting her head up to the dark ceiling above her, trying to see to the very sky above them, to that softly glowing moon that was supposed to be the caretaker and provider to the entire Kaldorei race. As her screams of pain and loss echoed throughout the chamber, something broke inside of Golonda Silvernight, Underwarden to the Barrow Prison. Nothing made sense anymore. The lawful were slain by the lawless, the elves she had dedicated her life and ten millennia beneath the earth away from the sky, the wind and the trees to protect had instead killed her love and freed the most dangerous of them all. It was as if Golonda was a pitcher, and everything good and decent in her had suddenly drained out of her through that hole in her heart. There was no justice, no love, no order in the world anymore, nothing worth working for or worth fighting for.

Hearing the anguished cries the remaining guards hurried to the grove, only to stand dumb-struck by the devastation and the pitiable figure of Golonda still bent over the cold body of her love. As they approached, their hearts rent with pity for the grieving elf, Golonda gently let Awel's body slide from her arms and rose swiftly to her feet. When she wheeled about sharply one of the elves had tried to say something, but whatever it was had been cut short as Golonda's moon glaive sliced through her unarmored neck. The whirring silver disk the weapon had become didn't stop there though, slicing through two others before it began to swing back towards Golonda, summoning it back to her enchanted forearm guard. The guards staggered back as they beheld the twitching bodies of their dead comrades and the mask of pure fury that was fixed on the Under-warden's face. They did not run fast enough. Centuries of training had given her the ultimate edge, while her subordinates, who had merely maintained their current level of skill, fell like tall stalks of grass before her shining blade. The time for screaming was far from over.

Golonda killed any who crossed her path, her expression and blood-soaked body marking her easily as an enemy to those who encountered her. She felt nothing as she cut them down, blinking through their arrows, savagely striking down more with her hands and feet as her blade continued to cut a swathe through their ranks. While a supreme warrior, she cared nothing for her own health, accepting cut, blows and even a few arrows that had caught her off guard. She was a berserker who wouldn't stop until she was dead.

Some time later, while her latest batch of slaughtered comrades lay bleeding out on the stone behind her, a severely injured Golonda staggered drunkenly along the hall, broken arrow stumps protruding from her thigh, shoulder and calf, her clothes rent from blades and her face ashen from blood loss. She was dying, she knew that. Her vision was closing in around her, her own shuffling footsteps sounding so distant to her ears. She would die and never get revenge on Tyrande for her murderous actions. Tears spilled from her blood-shot eyes, mixing with the blood on her face and trailing down her long neck. Ahead, a soft blue blow lit the hall, and Golonda staggered towards it.

A shining beacon stood before her, at the end of the dark tunnel that had become her field of vision. There was Aweldessa, suspended in the air and beckoning her with gentle motions, looking so beautiful, so peaceful. Golonda stumbled but stubbornly got back to her feet, determined to at least die with her love. The Under-warden, her strength finally spent, lurched forward and collapsed with her arm out-stretched, passing through the heavenly image of Awel. Golonda closed her tired eyes and let the darkness take her, knowing that Aweldessa was waiting for her on the other side.

When she awoke sometime later to the sounds of footsteps on stone, she was not cradled in the arms of her beloved, but still face-down on the gritty floor of the underground prison. "She's still alive!" someone exclaimed, and the footsteps increased their pace, until they came to a shuffling stop around her. Someone gingerly rolled her onto her back, a collective gasp resounding at her condition. Golonda's murderous rage had long fled her, leaving her with only with a cold emptiness and a bitter sense of being cheated. As her eyes focused on her fellow elves and upon Warden Shadowsong's visage she realized that they did not know who had slain all of those other elves, most likely believing it to be Tyrande and her traitorous retinue.

"Elune smiles on you this day, Under-warden," Maeiv said as Golonda was helped to her feet, " you managed to get close enough to the fountain of healing to prevent yourself from dying. From the looks of things you certainly gave the intruders hell. I would expect no less of you."

If only she knew the irony of her words, Golonda thought, standing under her own power. The soothing light she had seen was not that of Awel's aura, but the glow of the enchanted spring which greatly accelerated a living creature's ability to mend. She stumbled towards death, only to fall firmly back into the hands of life. A bittersweet smile crossed her blood-caked features.

"There's still time then, time for…" she said, holding up her hand and slowly curling it into a fist.

"For justice, yes. We will hunt down the traitors Illidan and Tyrande, and bring them both to singularly brutal justice." Warden Shadowsong agreed, with the night elves around her nodding grimly.

Golonda looked to her superior, the word 'revenge' was the one she was about to use, but she let it pass. Let them think her still an ally for now, even though she found she detested even the sight of them. All the better to slip free from the last of her constraints and seek her vengeance without interruption. This was not how it would work out for her though. Skilled as she was Tyrande was too well-guarded for Golonda to seek out and destroy by herself, so she entered a devil's bargain with the Shadow Council. She would serve their needs, and they would open a path to Tyrande for her.

There was a noise, a small noise, a light crunch of limestone under a booted foot just outside her door. It was such a tiny amount of sound, yet her sweeping ears heard it clearly. Acting out of reflex her moon glaive launched from her forearm with a whipping motion of her arm, sending the deadly weapon into the rough wooden planks that made up her door, the entire rickety structure shuddering violently from the forceful impact. Fully awake now, Golonda realized once again where she was, so caught up in her memories has she been. That human worm Muirdo had come to summon her for another task, and had that door not been there….

Muirdo was in some respects a brave man. He stood before all sorts of summoned demons and undead specters in the past, holding to the belief that his willingness to serve them would keep him safe. This strange, psychotic woman, however, chilled him like no demon could. She cared as little for his life as she did an ant crossing her path, and always seemed a hair's breadth of control away from killing everyone around her. When he had been bid by Master Dracol to bring her before him for her next murder, he did so only because if he hadn't, his usefulness would have surely expired in Dracol's eyes, an equally dangerous proposition. Walking up to the door and about to knock, the wooden door suddenly shook, an inch-and-a-half of curving silver metal sticking through one of the planks in perfect line with his forehead. Shuddering from the brush with death the robed man staggered back and fell, then scrambled to his feet and scurried off to the relative safety of his master's side. The message had been delivered. May the gods help whomever she was sent after tonight.

"Oh, you'll enjoy this one, my dear assassin. Consider it a dress rehearsal for your inevitable bloody revenge against the moon-witch Tyrande." Suul Dracol purred, his fingers steepled before his pale, angular face. Golonda remained impassive, still as a statue.

"A Kaldorei diplomat and his guards have recently arrived in Theramore. Kill as many of them as you like, but be sure to kill the druid and leave a message as you have in the past. As for what I require from him, " he explained, reaching behind him and producing a small glass bottle that shone a reddish hue in the light. The top was tipped with what looked like a metal bee's stinger, sharp and sinister in its unassuming form.

" Kill the druid and stick the needle within him. The item will do the rest. Three more murders, night elf, and you are on your way back to Ashenvale, your duties to me fulfilled."

Dracol lightly tossed the bottle to Golonda, who caught it effortlessly and swallowed it up under her cloak. Three more deaths, and she could finally return to her life's work, bringing justice back to the unjust, exacting measure for measure, a life for a life. Sleep well, Tyrande, Golonda thought to herself as she turned and strode from the chamber. These are the last nights of peaceful sleep you will ever know.


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Night had once again come upon Theramore, last city of the Alliance. Some resident say that if you never left the city, you could almost believe that you were back on Lordaeron. Nay, said others, shaking their heads sadly and casting their gazes skyward. The stars weren't the same, they'd say. They were all still there, but not in their proper places. These others wanted to look up to the stars that they grew up under, the one thing that would never change no matter what happened. Had any in the elite quarter of Theramore set their eyes on the celestial strangers above, they might have seen a dark blur briefly obscure a section of the night sky, along with the light rustling sound of a trailing cloak.

Golonda, her feet barely even touching the rooftops as she ran, closed in on her target with swift relentlessness. The loss-hardened heart that now dwelled in her breast did indeed look forward to this. It was, as Suul had said, a practice run for when she was finally free to pursue her vendetta against Tyrande. When at last the small but still impressive manor was in view she paused, crouching down low so not to present a large silhouette against the clear night sky.

The manor had an eight-foot stone wall around it, about half-a-foot thick, with a pointed iron railing around the top, making climbing over a tricky proposition, but leaping over it only slightly more hazardous. The gate was locked shut, iron bars with more points along the top preventing entry there, as well as two Sentinels standing guard outside. There would doubtlessly be more just inside the walled compound, walking around the neatly trimmed lawn and garden. The trick here wasn't how to kill so many guards, but how to do so quickly and quietly enough to avoid alerting the ambassador within.

While the walled compound made it virtually impossible to move across without being spotted by the sharp-eyed Sentinels, Golonda finally concluded that the close proximity within it would actually work out in her favor. Once her battle plan was mapped out in her head, she crossed the building tops until she was roughly a block away, then jumped down the street level. A brisk walk brought the vengeance-ridden Warden around the corner of the residence there, putting her on a direct path towards the two outer guards. Under her expansive cloak, Golonda's right arm curled, moon-glaive at the ready. Tossing aside the dark garment with her left arm her right snapped out, sending the three-bladed weapon out on a straight and level path at just above shoulder height. The assassin then began to run, long, muscled legs propelling her forward until she was almost matching the speed of her thrown weapon.

The first guard's long ears twitched as she heard the whirring noise of the approaching moon glaive and the light tapping of Golonda's boots against the stone street, her head beginning to turn. A look of shock had just managed to cross her face as the weapon sliced swiftly and cleanly through her unarmored neck, a large gush of blood erupting from the wound a fraction of a moment after the blade had passed through. The second guard, also hearing the noise and the brief, strangled cry of her comrade, had almost turned fully when the weapon struck her in turn, fully decapitating her and sending her helmeted head spiraling to the street. The Sentinel's nerveless hand twitched over the handle of her crescent-shaped sword, the entire body then joining its severed head on the ground. Its grisly work done, Golonda summoned the blade back to her gauntlet, the large round gem on the back of her hand glowing a faint blue as the magic called out to the like gem set into the middle of the moon glaive.

The glaive arced back towards her, skipping against the side of a nearby building before homing in on her gauntlet. The weapon had just struck the forearm brace when Golonda launched herself into the air, entering into a curled forward flip, her back just clearing the sharpened iron points set along the top of the stone wall. She landed in a crouch, crushing a row of carefully cultivated lily-of-the-valley beneath her feet, releasing their pungent odor to her nostrils, reminding her of another garden that had been trampled so callously in a land so far from here. The guards on the inside of the compound had been alerted by now, their weapons drawn, the fine silvery blades almost glowing in the moon light. Only one was mounted, the close confines of the courtyard allowing for only one of their infamous nightsaber panthers to maneuver effectively. Golonda straightened and walked to the edge of the garden, letting the guards see a tall, cloaked figure whose face was all but obscured by a voluminous hood. She stopped when she was within seven paces of them, the mounted Sentinel wielding a bow, an arrow as long as her arm pulled back behind the forward curve of the weapon. At this range a strike was assured, and a fatal blow an almost certainty, considering the skill of the archer.

Inside, in the well-furnished main bedchamber that occupied the better part of the north-west corner of the upper level, two figures moved against one another in the gloom, the only illumination the indirect starlight coming in from between the nearly closed drapes. But here, with the shuffling sounds of skin sliding against skin, with gently caressing hands, seeing was not necessary. The two knew each other so intimately by touch, scent and sound that had they been blind their whole lives, they would still recognize one another after only a few moments together. A nose slowly slid along the entire length of a gracefully arcing ear, a slim hand pressing a well-muscled shoulder and then sliding further down. With a subtle movement there was a soft, high-pitched gasp and a groan of a deeper register. The two bodies continued their slow, sensual dance, completely unawares of the events transpiring on the front lawn of that very house.

"Identify yourself before we end your life, assassin. You have lost the element of surprise and I have you dead in my sights. Who sent you?"

Golonda paused for a long moment, then slowly took her hands out from under the cloak, weaponless. The Sentinels edged forward, tense, weapons swaying slightly as they were positioned for maximum effect on the first swing. Her long, slender fingers curled around the hem of the hood, slowly pulling it back. A collective, muted gasp rose from the mouths of the Sentinels as her face was finally revealed. The moonlight slid across her smooth, angular features, highlighting the prominent parts of her face and seeming to set her hair ablaze. It was a silvery-white in color, chopped short at the nape of her neck, worn parted down the middle, with the tips of the bangs just covering over her almond-shaped eyes. The former Under-warden cocked her head to the side slightly, regarding the look of shock on the Sentinel leader's lower face, the upper portion still obscured by the hawk-nosed helm she wore.

"Tyrande. Tyrande Whisperwind is the reason I am here tonight. Ask her why when she joins you in the afterlife. "

The lead Sentinel answered this with her bow, sending the perfectly-straight shaft of her arrow at Golonda's heart. The assassin's form suddenly seemed to collapse in on itself with a brief flash, the arrow striking that magical discharge rather than the flesh and bone that was there only a split-second ago. Golonda now stood a body's width to the right of where she was previous, effectively dodging the deadly metal-tipped shaft without having to move. The nightsaber emitted a threatening growl, and the rest of the Sentinels charged forward.

Golonda reached deep down inside herself and drew forth the magical power the dwelled there, honed and refined after centuries of practice and meditation. Her arms threw aside her cloak, revealing a form-fitting leather bodysuit of darkest black, with a dizzying array of sheathes sewn to the outside of it. In each sheath was a slim, double-edged dagger, forged from a single piece of steel and perfectly balanced for throwing. Time then seemed to slow in a bubble around Golonda, the edges of her cloak rippling languidly as if she were underwater. Blindingly fast, her hands then began to retrieve daggers and set them into air, as if they were stuck in some sort of invisible surface. When the time bubble collapsed, the entire length of its existence measured in the time it takes to draw a breath, these daggers then flew out in their pre-determined paths, creating a barrage of steel points with which the Sentinels could offer no effective defense. A few blades were deflected by their intercepting swords, ringing off with the high-pitched 'ting' of finely-crafted metal striking finely-crafted metal, but the rest found their mark, and blood coursed over armor plates and purple skin.

Inside, the bodies began to move with more vigor, more need. They twisted and rolled several times before stopping with one on top of the other, then focusing their movement on only one portion of the body. The figure lying on its back moaned loud and clutched feebly at the wrinkled bed sheets, spasms rocking their body. At last, after a titanic build up, the two figures suddenly arched their backs, emitting a shuddering, wordless cry of ecstasy and release, even their voices seeming to embrace as they drifted up towards the ceiling. The two continued their rhythmic movements even after this, determined to strain every moment of pleasure from the experience.

One Sentinel sat on her knees after the assault, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth as she began to pull the dagger from her chest, the weapon having lost some of its deadly momentum from the glancing parry she had managed with her sword. Golonda's foot lashed out, her heel striking the dagger's pommel and driving it deep within the guard's heart, killing her instantly. Seeing the danger posed by the thrown weapons to its rider, the nightsaber had selflessly reared up, exposing its underbelly to the assault and shielding his rider. The lead Sentinel cried out in denial and alarm as she pitched backwards, she alone untouched by the assassin's flurry of blades. The other guards were dead or dying, long limbs crumpled and twitching and sightless eyes gazing up at the night sky. The nightsaber now lay on his side, his breathing shallow and quick, a dagger in a lung, shoulder and lower jaw. It growled at Golonda as she slowly approached his master, a wet, burbling noise as its lungs filled with blood, incapable of stopping her.

The last Sentinel struggled to reach her bow which lay nearby, an arrow clutched in her left hand and ready to notch. Golonda whipped her right arm in an upward arc, releasing the moon glaive and then almost immediately recalling it. The spinning weapon dug a shallow groove into the short grass, beginning to arc upwards into the air after it had traveled only a few feet, but not leaving the earth until it had severed the night elf's hand at the wrist, the tips of the unresponsive fingers lightly resting on the bow shaft. The last Sentinel screamed in pain and horror at the spurting stump that her arm now ended in, her sobs of pain interrupted only by coughing from a throat made raw by her screams.

The lead Sentinel looked up to see the imposing figure of Golonda standing over her, moon glaive pointed at her neck, blades and hair flashing the same brilliant color in the moonlight. The last guard coughed and looked then to the moon far above them both, her shuddering subsiding somewhat even though she continued to bleed at an alarming rate.

"Why-why have you betrayed us?" she asked, still gazing at the silver-white crescent in the sky.

"I did not betray, it was I who was betrayed. I lost everything because of mindless followers like you who thought they knew the best way to save us all. She was taken from me, and now I work to repay that wrong tenfold, to make Tyrande suffer as I have."

The Sentinel said nothing at first, her ears hearing her faithful mount's last breath leave his lungs as he perished right beside her. Her own breathing growing shallow and her vision darkening, she then looked at her attacker, fixing her with eyes beginning to glaze over.

"Do you think she still waits for you, knowing what you have done in her name? She is there, "the downed Sentinel whispered, looking back at the moon.

"She-she is there with Elune forever, in a place you can never reach her because of what you have become."

Rage shook Golonda's body, her face a distorted mask of anger. How dare she speak of Aweldessa in such a way! The former Under-warden raised up her glaive to finish the elf off, but the last guard wasn't out of life yet. With a pained grunt she swung her left arm across her body while still gripping the arrow shaft, driving its metal tip through both the top and bottom of Golonda's boot and foot, all the way into the soil she stood on. The look of anger melted into disbelief and pain, her foot pinned to the ground by the impromptu weapon, pain shooting up her leg. Snarling with barely suppressed blood-lust the assassin let her glaive fall again and again, butchering the defiant guard until she was an unrecognizable pile of gore.

Her breath coming out from behind clenched teeth the former Under-warden bent down and grasped the shaft of the arrow. It would cause less damage to merely pull the shaft out, so with a quick motion she snapped the wooden implement, grunting in pain as she did so. She then slowly pulled her foot off of the rest of the gory weapon, gasping aloud despite herself. The wound would hamper her movement, her maneuverability, but she still had a mission to undertake, and a small thing like this would not stop her. With a pained limp, she made for the house….

Ambassador Twillbara Clearwater slipped on a loose robe of rich emerald trimmed in golden thread knot-work and opened the veranda door, letting the cool breeze wash over his mostly naked form and sweep through the room where Sharleste slumbered. Once past the threshold he turned and silently swung the doors closed, but not completely, leaving only a small crack between the two doors. He walked to the stone balustrade decorated with small flower boxes populated by tiny blooms with yellow petals and a dun center. The slight of so many stone buildings clustered around him didn't refresh him the way the wind and the sight of the open sky did, but he could endure it. Being so far from the comforting sight of centuries-old trees and the soothing shadows underneath their boughs was the price he had to pay. He, and everyone who traveled with him to try and heal the rift between themselves and their wayward cousins the Quel'dorei. Thousands of years past, they had been exiled from Kalimdor, but now the return of the Legion had brought the two related races together again, and Clearwater saw it as a sign to try and help those who had suffered so on that distant continent to once again become one strong people. It was an uphill battle though, with many detractors among his own people, and he doubted that even he would be able to accomplish the task in his lifetime. That's why there was Sharleste. While still grappling with her own prejudice, she had a gentle and temperate spirit, and he hoped that one day she would take up his fight should he not be able to….

Some primal warning broke Clearwater from his thoughts. The tiny voices of the flowers before him cried out, swaying almost imperceptibly to attract his attention. The wind coiled and shifted around him, teasing the wisps of hair that had slipped free of his lengthy pony tail from his love-making session. Millennia of living in tune with the spirits of the natural world made him aware of even the tiniest nuances and signals. He was no longer alone on the balcony.

There was a slight rustling noise behind him, and then two light taps on the stone. He also smelled freshly spilt blood, the mark of a predator. When he spoke there was a sort of tired resignation in his voice, looking down at his hands, at the fine lines that marked his advanced age to those who knew where to look.

"I suppose if you are here, most or all of my guards are dead. I hope they died quickly and without suffering."

"Some did, others did not."

"A shame, to die so far from home. I will assume that I am your actual target. What I did to deserve such hatred I do not know."

"You are a stepping stone on the path to something greater, who you actually are or what you did in your life is irrelevant."

Ambassador Clearwater slowly turned around until he was facing his would-be killer. The figure before him was tall, as tall as any night elf, and her scent, that too marked her as one of his fellow Keldorei.

"How is it that you, my child, managed to lose your way so completely? Elune's light shines to guide all who walk the difficult paths of life."

"I was sealed away from Elune's light for a very long time, old man. Even your vaunted goddess cannot reach hundreds of feet underground."

Clearwater peered at the hooded face, speaking with perfect calm.

"Perhaps Elune's light has not stopped shining, but you instead have decided to stop looking. Whatever evils have befallen you in your life, this is not the answer to it. It is never too late to begin walking the path of forgiveness."

The figure snorted at this, and it was then that Clearwater saw that she was wounded, a hole in her left foot. This must have been the scent of blood that he had detected.

"And what if I decided to kill your lover in there, then promise to give up my murderous ways? Would you still take me under your wing and guide me back to the light? Would I then become your next bed-mate?" she taunted, taking a step forward.

The beginnings of a frown began to crease Clearwater's brow. Her threat was not an empty one, and while he hated to turn aside those who had strayed from good, he disliked seeing those that he loved suffer even more.

" It seems that I can do nothing to turn you away from your chosen course, at least, not in the time that we have here. I suppose… " Clearwater began, but was cut off as the door behind the assassin began to push out, the conversation having awoken Sharleste from her slumbering. With a short, angry cry, his pupil violently pushed open the door, but the assassin wasn't caught off-guard, and reacted without hesitation.

Her right leg kicked straight back as Golonda's body dipped low as a counter-balance, the elf looking past her left shoulder to make sure that her strike was as effective as she had intended for it to be. It was, the door rapidly pushed back to strike the interfering woman on the forehead and knock her prone, and senseless as well. Clearwater had little time before the assassin's attention would be on him again, using that distraction to summon up magic from the depths of his soul and channel it into his right arm. The purple skin there began to shift and warp, bulging with rough protuberances and the fingers growing much longer and thicker. In the blink of an eye the night elf ambassador's arm was the size of a nightsaber's hind limb, and composed of a dense wooden material, with sharp-tipped fingers suitable for raking.

Golonda' attention shifted back to her true target just in time to see the end of the transformation, the unarmed man now wielding a formidable natural weapon. The former under-warden drew her arm back, ready to hurl her deadly weapon at him, but a peculiar rustling sound from around her made her pause. Looking to her flanks she saw that the vegetation on either side of her—little more than tiny shrubs and flowering plants beforehand—had become writhing masses of green tendrils moving under the guidance of the druid. Her injured foot still paining her Golonda nevertheless lunged forward, teeth bared in a feral snarl and right hand now grasping the outer edge of one of the moon glaive's three blades, to be used as a slashing weapon. Upon receiving some silent command the vegetation shot outwards, coiling around the limbs of the assassin, staying her progress towards him. Golonda twisted and thrashed in their wiry grip, her moon glaive slicing through the vegetation desperately, knowing that her mobility was her greatest asset against a spell caster. Clearwater was not idle during this time, however, his transformed arm cutting an arc towards the trapped would-be killer. Muscles straining the former under-warden was only just barely able to deflect the brunt of the druid's attack across the flat of her glaive, though she still received two long, shallow cuts across her right forearm where the metal guard didn't cover.

The druid drew his hand back, preparing for another strike. He would not underestimate her a second time, the vines beginning to wrap around her neck and face, half-blinding her. With one violent heave she threw the moon glaive at her target, the tri-bladed weapon still possessing a great deal of force behind it despite the short distance it flew. This time it was the ambassador's turn to deflect an assault, the blade being parried to the side by his wooden arm and the arcanite blade sticking into the thick stone railing. Seeing her only effective weapon now out of her reach the druid focused on directing the vines, moving slowly forward to deliver the final blow. " And so it ends, " he said quietly, eyeing the struggling woman with pity.

All but helpless in the grip of the druid's enchanted vines Golonda had only one chance to kill him. She focused on the gauntlet on her right arm, summoning the glaive back to her. The weapon quivered in its stony prison, the gem set in the middle glowing brightly, with then a swift, clean 'shicht' noise, it slipped free, twirling back to the point of its summons…or at least it would have, had the druid's back not been between it and the blade.

"Tell me again, lad, why are we tromping through the goldgrubber's district this late at night? I have a bad enough reputation with the city guard as it is."

"We are here because every target of the killer has been somehow important to Theramore, or to the Alliance as a whole. There are many here whose deaths would serve to further the deterioration of the city's overall power base, plus a newly arrived ambassador. It may only be a hunch, but perhaps fortune will smile on us," the elf wizard replied tersely, trying to focus on the environment around him and not dwarven prattle.

"For both our sakes I hope your right. The pay's good enough, but all of this cloak and dagger stuff is starting to wear on me. Let's put this murderous fiend to rest and get on with living," Daghmor stated, shrugging the issue away.

Shaking his blonde locks at his stocky companion Crys was about to throw something chiding the dwarf's way when something out of place caught his eye in the streets ahead. What appeared to be two crumpled forms lay on the street by the gate into one of the estates lining the street. The warmage quickened his pace, Daghmor hurrying to catch up, uncomprehending at first, but seeing the bodies soon after.

" I hate when your hunches are right, lad," the dwarf groused, struggling to keep up with his short legs and old injury as the long-striding elf broke into a full run.

It was as bad as Crys had feared. The figures were lying in thick pools of dark blood, their weapons un-drawn and heads separated from their bodies. These were some of the guards whom the Quel'dorei had encountered outside the council building, the honor guard for the night elf diplomat. Despite his feelings toward his racial cousins, the elf knew he had to stop the murder of the ambassador. These killings seemed to have some darker purpose other than sending tremors of fear through Theramore, and if Crys could interrupt one of those steps, maybe the reason would become apparent.

The gates of the estate were still firmly locked, eight feet tall with the same metal points across the top as the wall did. This was only a problem for the mundane. By the time Daghmor had caught up the green energy from Crys' unlocking spell had already sent the gate doors flying open, with the mage waiting for his backup to reach him before proceeding.

Inside the scene was no less grim, with the rest of the guard laid out in a bloody scatter like fresh cuts of meat thrown out for the hounds. One was so badly sliced Crys had to force down the urge to wretch a few times at the sight of it before being able to regain his composure.

"Come on, lad, this is no time to re-examine your dinner. The murderer might still be inside!" Daghmor prompted, moving up to the door cautiously. Nodding, Crys spotted a slight but distinct blood trail leading from the scene of the slaughter into the partly open door of the manor. With all the guards dead and accounted for, it was probable that they had at least managed to injure the intruder.

The need for haste overcoming caution the elf pushed the door open roughly and paused at the threshold only long enough to spot the stair case leading up to the second storey. Their booted feet rumbling up the wooden stairs, Crys frowning in concentration as he sorted through what spells he could use against such a skilled assailant. He would have to consider if the ambassador or his protégé were nearby too, so it would have to be both focused and deadly. Hopefully the killer would be distracted enough to unleash a spell before the murderer could throw their weapon, the elven wizard thinking back to the neatly sliced neck on the orc and how swiftly he had been felled.

At the top the pair had little trouble determining which was the master bedroom, the elaborately carved door and the blood trail faintly detectable on the carpet leading to it both obvious signs. Steeling his nerve before throwing open the door, Crys entered first, stepping to the right, with Daghmor directly behind him, stepping to the left so they could both fight without getting each other's way. The quiet scene beyond the door was not what they had expected, nor was the stirring night elf woman without a stitch of clothing on, laying on her side in the middle of the room. By her hair color Crys recognized her as the ambassador's student, and apparent lover. Propping herself up weakly on one elbow she pointed to the room's only other door, which, judging by its location in reference to the house, opened up to the outside onto some sort of balcony. A thick stream of blood from her nostrils that had covered most of her lower face told them how she had been rendered unconscious.

"Please, help him," she pleaded in a pained voice.

Pushing aside his dislike for her and the sight of nearly seven feet of perfectly toned elf flesh, Crys rushed past her and pulled open the door, crouching low in anticipation of a reactive strike from who ever might be on the other side.

They were too late, it seemed. The tall assassin was quickly removing something from the slain ambassador's arm and storing it under their cloak when the door opened. It was then that Crys received his second shock for that night. Short, sliver-white hair framed a strong but still distinctly female face as white eyes swiveled to gaze upon him. The murderer was not only female, but a night elf as well?! Before he could consider the ramifications of such a development the scene burst into motion. The prone student wailed at the sight of her dead shan'do, Daghmor roared and began a charge towards the assassin, and the Kaldorei killer staggered back in surprise at their sudden intrusion, forcing the mage to act quickly. Curling the fingers on his right hand into claws Crys called upon the elements, drawing in and rapidly cooling the moisture in the surroundings around the central point of his hand, creating a bright blue glow there. Slowed by her injuries the murderess nonetheless had managed to vault over the edge of the balcony before his spell was completed, the roughly bullet-shaped mass of ice striking her in mid-air. Clambering to a standing position Crys rushed to the stone railing, just as the assassin was hitting the ground and Daghmor was following her hasty path to the ground, cudgel in hand.

The icy bolt had done as Crys had intended, the supernatural cold both eliciting a pained cry from the fleeing night elf, and the chill seizing her muscles and slowing her speed considerably, slow enough for a short-limbed dwarf to catch up. The solid wooden club rose up and fell with enough force to break bones…if it had actually connected to the side of her knee as the rogue had intended. Instead his over-extended swing sent him to the grass in a tangle of leather and black hair, as the fugitive simply ceased being where she was and reappeared roughly ten paces ahead. Limply badly now, the heavily cloaked night elf made it to the wall, and with a slightly wobbly leap, sailed over the metal points, though she snagged and tore a good portion of her cloak on the way over.

"Blast furnace!" Daghmor roared as he got back to his feet, covered with bits of grass but otherwise no worse for wear.

Crys slapped the palm of his hand on the stone surface of the railing in frustration. They knew there enemy now, but to have her slip away when they were so close…. The soft sound of weeping broke the elf from his directionless anger, turning around slowly to view the pitiable scene of Sharleste cradling the dead body of the ambassador in her arms. She had wrapped a sheet around her naked form, her tears streaking past an obviously broken nose and mingling with the blood caked on her chin and around her mouth. Crys felt like he should say something, but words seemed to inadequate, and would likely mean nothing coming from him.

Now that all the action had died down the elven wizard was able to examine the corpse of the Kaldorei emissary a little closer. He looked nothing like the man he had seen earlier that day, like he had suddenly experienced the withering of the flesh that should have normally affected someone of his advanced age. His skin was pale and drawn tightly over his bones, his eyes sunken into their sockets, lips clinging tight to the teeth. Simply being killed didn't do this to him, there was some other force at work, something that drained the life from him. A small scrap of paper rested on the stone near the dead man's hand, obviously another taunting message from the mastermind of these crimes.

Crys stooped to pluck the paper from the floor when he noticed something else about the body that was out of the ordinary. An ugly bruise had formed around a hole in the corpses' left arm, near the cluster of veins between the pair of bones in the forearm. It looked like the sting from a very large insect, but Crys new that there was nothing of the sort around that could inflict that kind of wound. Standing back up the elf's sharp hearing heard the sounds of clanking metal and distant shouts of alarm as a patrol happened across the slain Kaldorei guards outside the manor. He examined the lightly crumpled piece of paper in his palm, reading its words while the bereaved night elf gently stroked the slain ambassador's long braid. 'Ye shall suffer like none before' the note read in simple black ink. Thinking of the pall of death that had been thrown over this house, Crys could only darkly imagine what else this killer and her master had planned for the city's populace.

"The guard will be up here shortly. I'd wager you'd want to slip something proper on before they arrive."

Sharleste glared at him, her eyes filled with a mixture of anger and sorrow, then softened somewhat. Mutely, she stood up on unsteady legs and made her way into the bedroom where she and her love had spent such an intimate time together not long ago. Looking back over her shoulder to make sure she wasn't paying attention to him, Crys gingerly grabbed the corpse's shoulder and pulled him to his side. The body seemed to weigh as much as a child's now, and was rapidly cooling besides. Crys had still not seen what had killed the man, and knowing their assassin's preferred method of murder, the elf doubted it was the hole in the arm.

It was in the middle of the back, straight in line with the spinal column, that the blade had pierced, an inch long cut with a surprisingly small amount of blood found there. Judging by the location of the blow, Crys wasn't entirely sure that it had killed him right away, perhaps only paralyzed. The warmage closed his eyes tightly at the thought of this, letting the corpse return to its former prone position. To lie there helplessly while your life was being drained away….

"She said that what he was meant nothing, and that he was only a step to something bigger. As if everything he had done in his life did not matter," came the raspy voice of Sharleste behind him, startling him and forcing him to a standing position rapidly in an effort to distance himself from the corpse of her beloved. Lip quivering in an effort to maintain her composure she fought a losing battle, slowly sliding down the edge of the door frame, the tears flowing once again.

"All those guards, dead… all dead. Yet I'm still alive, oh Elune why am I still alive?" she pleaded to the indifferent night sky. Crys again stood mutely, eyes unable to look upon her. While his head was turned he noticed a deep cut in the stone of the railing, undoubtedly from the same arcanite weapon that was cutting a bloody swath through Theramore's populace. A missed throw?

The strength of the words the night elf said next forced his attention solely on her, however, looking upon a face ravaged by both physical and emotional pain.

"Promise me, High-born! Promise me that one responsible will pay for this, for each of the lives she has destroyed tonight. If I am unable to pursue the road of vengeance, you must travel it for me. Do this…I, beg of you," she faltered, collapsing into a fit of sobs again. Crys' brow furrowed, the indifferent mask on his face sliding slightly at the heart-rending scene before him. After a long pause, he spoke;

"I promise you that stopping her and who she works for will be the foremost thoughts in my mind. They will see their ambitions squashed, their plans foiled, and their lives ended, as is the only fitting punishment for those who view other's lives so callously," the high elven wizard finally declared, his tone low but determined, to try and convince her of his sincerity when his word would have not carried much weight to begin with. She didn't seem to hear him, stirring only when the Theramore guard began to enter the house from below, and even then only to move to seat herself on the edge of the bed where she and her teacher had shared their final intimate moments together.

Turning away to face out onto the yard Crys looked to the night sky, wondering, as he had many nights before, if Rhell too looked up to the same sky. It wasn't odd that he thought of her at a time like this. Whenever he saw loss and grief, his mind inevitably turned to his own, and how the world around him sometimes seemed drenched in it. How many more corpses would he stand over before this assignment was brought to a close?

Below, Daghmor was being eyed by the guards in a most uncomfortable manner, and called up to him.

"Are we done here, lad? This many guards in one place is conjuring up memories of some unpleasant nights."

The elf sighed wearily and nodded, still looking at the star-filled sky.

"Aye, we are. I'll fill the watch commander in on what happened here, and then we will have a drink, and review what we know so far. But mostly drink."


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

The sight of the heavily limping and obviously injured night elf assassin brought mixed emotions to Dracol; elation that yet another target had been killed, and hence another ingredient retrieved for him, and disappointment that her injuries would slow his progress forward. She left without a word, and he had said nothing to her in return, accepting the magical receptacle with only the slightest of nods and an evil grin twitching the corners of his thin-lipped mouth. She was a tool for him, his only interest in her emotional state was to see how he could manipulate those emotions to further his cause and keep her under his thumb. It was in this deepest chamber of the sprawling network of tunnels honeycombing the rock beneath Theramore city Suul'Dracol had set up his ritual chamber.

A gigantic black iron cauldron sat posed over a sickly green fire, suspended by thick chains atop charred wooden posts set into notches in the stone floor. The cauldron itself was fashioned to resemble an up-turned human skull, the fluids contained within the part of the skull that would have held the brain. Already the contents of the pot, a glistening black sludge, bubbled over the unearthly fire, releasing a stench that would have turned any mortal's stomach and killed any plant life if any had been nearby. It was like ambrosia to the dread lord, however, a concoction as foul and impenetrable as he was.

With almost child-like delight he unscrewed the metal top of the bottle, then quickly emptied its scarlet contents into the pot. There was an instant reaction, the black goo churning and leaping up around the red stream, almost as if it were a living thing wanting to absorb that essence into itself as fast as possible. When at last the bottle was empty a large plume of ashen smoke rose up, taking the vague shape of a distorted, screaming night elf face before dissipating. The Nathrezim swirled his hands over the cauldron, calling to mind words of power in Eredun, which he mumbled as a sort of mantra for several moments. The brew was more than half-way complete now, the black liquid blushing into a brilliant, angry red after the blood infusion.

Only two more ingredients were needed, both bodily components of sentient creatures. The tongue of the fish merchant would insure that all who spoke the language of man would hear the curse's effect. The heart of the fierce orc would instill an ever-growing rage into the breasts and minds of the city folk, really the crux of the powerful spell. The addition of the night elf blood added longevity to the curse, ensuring that its effects would not end before it had wreaked total devastation on the populace. Next, he would need the hands of a stout dwarf, giving the spell-induced rage the ability to withstand the strongest arguments of logic or emotion, so that none would be spared its touch. Lastly, the keen eyes of a Quel'dorei would be needed, so that any being that an accursed would see would feel his wrath, be it friend or foe. Suul'Dracol almost giggled at the delicious carnage it would sow in this city. Why bring an army to conquer a city when you can get it to tear itself apart? Betrayal, distrust, fear. These were the meat and drink of ones like him, and despite its slow pace, Suul could be patient a few more nights before witnessing the fall of the city. It would be well worth the wait.

No sooner had these thoughts drifted through his mind than a wind from an obviously unnatural source began to blow through the chamber, causing the fel fires beneath the cauldron to sway like bright stalks of grass and teasing the edges of Suul's wings. His imposing face lost much of its former confidence upon feeling this, knowing exactly what the wind portended. He turned, facing the swirling vortex of black energy into which endless ribbons of violet energy seemed to swirl and vanish. His liaison to the Shadow Council had arrived, and appearing before Theramore was knee-deep in bodies was a sign that something had displeased them. Not a comforting prospect, from Suul's viewpoint.

At last the barely discernable shape of a heavily cloaked and hooded figure appeared in the center of the vortex, speeding towards the opening despite not budging and inch, almost as if he were moving the world to get to his destination, rather than the other way around. Despite himself Suul took a step back as the figure gently drifted to a stop just outside the vortex, which promptly ceased to exist, collapsing upon itself in a flash of light, taking with it the unnatural winds.

Appearing to be little more than a rumpled shroud of the blackest pitch, the figure's head rose up from its bowed position, fixing the dread lord with a single burning red eye, as if the other was closed or simply did not exist. When the thing spoke it was the stuff of nightmares, so deep it seemed to come up from the very stone they stood on.

"Your plans, they proceed without hindrance?" the visitor asked, though with enough force and authority to make the question sound like a demand.

"Yes, there has been resistance, as expected, but nothing has stopped me from taking what I need to complete the spell. Provided my underlings do not fail me in their tasks it will be done as promised," Suul countered, not quite able to summon up as much volume as his questioner.

"There must be no mistakes, no delays. The Shadow Council has decreed that it must move swiftly in these matters, before any counter-offence can be mounted. Already others have failed in their tasks, and paid for it most painfully. I am here to make sure you will not be joining these fools and that Theramore will be a burning rubble in three days hence."

Upon speaking these words an "arm" separated itself from the bulk of cloth that composed the liaison, a thin limb draped in the midnight fabric the rest of the body was. From out of a voluminous sleeve a small glowing shard of some green crystal dropped suddenly from the darkness within, suspended on a wide-linked black chain. The crystal was rough and jagged looking, as if it were plucked right from the ground and then used with no thought to its ascetic appeal. Glowing like the fires beneath the cauldron the crystal itself was otherwise unremarkable, but what seemed to swirl inside the uncut gem caught Suul's eyes. A tiny, distorted face writhed within the confines of its clear prison, emitting a silent wailing cry and looking about the room for some means of escape, fully aware of its current situation. The face looked at Suul with a pitiable, pleading look before suddenly being sucked back into the messenger's sleeve with a quick rattle of metal links. Suul ground his fangs at this none-to-subtle threat, but otherwise did not respond to the display.

The portal suddenly sprung open again, with the same chilling wind as before blowing from it. "Remember, Suul'Dracol. Three days. Success will be rewarded generously. Failure…" the figure warned, starting to float away into the magical vortex. The still extended arm dropped out another crystal on a chain, but this one was grey and dull, as if empty. The Nathrezim watched as the figure grew rapidly more distant and then disappeared as the vortex collapsed with no small amount of relief. Alone again in his chamber the dread lord looked drained by the whole experience, pinching the bridge of his narrow nose and scowling deeply.

With a sudden burst of speed and movement Suul's right hand lashed out at a nearby wall, sparks flying as his black nails dug parallel gouges into the stone. How dare they threaten him like some unimportant lackey. His work was genius, a work of art! Short-sighted impatience was the down-fall of the Burning Legion and would carry the Shadow Council to its grave a second time as well if they became ruled by the fear of being challenged even in the least bit. Whatever their reasoning was, their threat was real enough. Suul could allow for no interference, no mistakes. Whatever punishment he could mete out on his underlings would pale in comparison to what would be done to him.

"Muirdo!" he bellowed, turning his head to face the closed door. "Muirdo!"

A few short moments passed before bare feet rapidly slapping against stone came down the hall, the door opening to reveal a blearly-eyed Muirdo, wearing a night shirt and carrying a sputtering lantern. It was in about the middle of the short sleep period that the servant was allowed, but Suul could care less at a time like this. Seizing the front of the off-white garment the dread lord dragged his underling close, boring into him with his inhuman eyes.

"I want every one of my cultists on the streets to give me any and all information on those two meddling investigators they can find. I do not care who they have to beat, bribe or kill to find out. They have twenty-four hours to do so. I want to be able to kill those two the very next day, before I send_ her_ out again. Do I make myself clear?" he snarled, releasing the man back with a violent shove. Murido nodded vigorously, fumbling for the door handle.

"Y-yes my great lord. It will be done as you say."

He wasn't too sure what had put his master into such a mood, but he was determined not to do anything to excite the powerful demon any more than he already was. Quickly exiting Suul was once again left to his thoughts, striding over to the cauldron to try and ease his mind with the sight of his nearly complete creation. Moments passed and the dread lord's heavy breathing started to slow and become more even. Still gazing into the depths of the reddish liquid Suul whispered,

"Soon, Mal'Ganis. Soon I will be able to start exacting my revenge…"

"Revenge? For what?"

"That…I can only guess at," Crys admitted while he paced slowly before the blazing hearth. His external self was warmed by its heat while the glass of fine brandy in his right hand warmed him internally, with each swallow its burning rush attempting to banish the empty chill of both the magical addiction and the senseless death he had borne witness to that night. Daghmor had once again taken a position in one of the comfortable chairs there, looking as he was about to be swallowed by some giant maw made of polished wood and green cloth such was its comparative size. The dwarf drained his glass in one smooth motion, downing the potent liquid as easily as another might sup water, and refilling his glass immediately from the decanter nearby.

"One of yer old friends from Dalaran, disenchanted, pun intended," the rogue said with a smirk before continuing, " by the failure of the Alliance to protect his beloved city from the Scourge, figures out a way to strike back at them, punish them..." Daghmor trailed off, taking another swig of his alcohol.

"And the night elf assassin? Is there some sort of killer-for-hire outlet here in Theramore, specializing in the bizarre and out-landish? No. If there's revenge in these killings, it's from her, I'm almost certain. Only that could turn someone so callous," the elven warmage countered, uncurling his index finger from around the glass to point at his companion.

"Yer heart's treasure didn't ask for motive, only to end the killings. Conjecture and heresy are all fine and dandy, in their place and time, but we need a clear idea of where the purple bitch is going to strike next, so I can introduce her to Matilda right properly," the dark-garbed dwarf said, patting his cudgel fondly. Crys scowled at his reference to Jaina as his "heart's treasure", but his retort was lost in a sigh of frustration. More amber liquid slipped past his lips, and the cold iron spike in his back that was their deadline eased off just a little bit more.

"A wizard out for revenge wouldn't hire out to a member of a race he barely knows for his killings. She's too odd to not somehow have a deeper connection to this."

Crys seated himself opposite the dwarf, anything but relaxed, however.

"Then who, lad?" Daghmor demanded, tossing his arms wide and causing some of his brandy to go sloshing out of his glass to land on the rug. Retracting his arms to try and cover up the spill the dwarf was relieved to note that the elf was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to have noticed. "Kul-Tiras loyalists? Troll witch doctors? Grumpy murlocs?" the rogue listed off rapidly, his frustration mirroring Crys's. The elf answered by downing the rest of his drink in one large mouthful, trickles of the brandy running out from the corners of his mouth before they were wiped away by the back of his hand.

The elven wizard looked to the board he had set up in his chambers to track the evidence they had gathered so far. Rough sketches of the victims were pinned to it, as well as what was taken from each of them (except the fish merchant, not enough evidence remained to determine what, if anything, was taken from him). The drawings were crude, Crys's artistic ability dampened by years of neglect and lack of focus. Various notes also adorned the board at various angles and in various forms, most hastily scrawled on whatever was available when a thought struck. When the elf added it all up though, it was too much equation and not enough sum. A memory from his military training that seemed like a lifetime ago came to the forefront of his mind, of a grizzled and generally unpleasant commander who was teaching them the basics of logistics; "An army in the field is a predator. A predator only stops moving when it eats and sleeps, and even then it must be wary and able to move at a moment's notice. It must interpret the information it receives from the area correctly, and move accordingly, and strike when and where it is least expected. If you and those under your command are not the predator, what do you think you will become?" he finished, ending with that question lingering in the air.

Be the predator. Think like one who wishes to destroy the power structure and security of Theramore. Crys pondered this, the empty snifter forgotten in his hand. He had become too reactionary, too defensive in his pursuit of his quarry. The night elf assassin, who was up against superior numbers and in enemy territory had to be very careful and plan well in advance for her missions to succeed. So who would likely be the next target? Most likely not Jaina, though the thought still put a chill down his spine. It was likely they would save the 'best for last' as it were, so the next up from a influential visiting ambassador would most likely be a powerful head of state, or military commander, or even an unofficial but much-beloved community figurehead. Crys looked to the board beside him while continuing to follow his new line of thinking.

So far, all killed had been of a different race, which, if there was some sort of logic behind the choice of victims, might mean that the field had narrowed greatly. No more humans, night elves, or even upon the unlikely return of one, orcs. The other races present in Theramore would be next, and this was limited to gnomes, dwarves, and elves. There was a single elf on the Theramore ruling council, arguably the most powerful of his race in the city as far as political influence was concerned. The dwarves were a significant force as far the Theramore's infrastructure and defense was concerned, so a blow to a guild leader or master smith would be crippling. The gnomes were fewer in number, and while they played a part in the over-all defense and upkeep of the fortress city, they had little overt impact on the political realm, or in the lives of the average Theramore citizen. This all but removed them from the killer's line of thinking. An elf or a dwarf, which would next have a tri-bladed shadow fall over them?

While some-what revitalized by a possible break in the case Crys couldn't keep his eye lids from drooping sleepily as his mind returned to the room he was in. The quantity of strong brandy in him had warmed the elf wizard enough that he had all but forgotten the events of the night, and here in his room with a cheery fire and a comfortable chair, as well as a dwarf already nodding off beside him, sleep was something that he would not be able to hold off for long. Setting his glass down on the floor beside the chair Crys folded his hands on his belly and slouched a bit more, eyes closing in blissful surrender. Elf or dwarf, he thought hazily. Which would be the first target?

"Up in his chambers all night he was", the man said, casting another furtive glance down both sides of the gloomy street. " With the dwarf too, the two of them there. Not unusual, I'm told. The dwarf drinks like a fish, the elf drinks like a dwarf who drinks like a fish," the man cackled, then quickly silenced his laugh and looked around shiftily again.

"Anything else?" another rough voice asked, hooded and crouched behind a empty crate. The first man nodded enthusiastically, knowing that the more information he gave, the more gold that would clink around in his pouch.

"Yes, yes. A woman, a maid, not a whore, at least not any whore I've seen walking the streets, sometimes she goes up into the tower. All the way to the top. Seen her there myself some mornings. Must clean, or something. Wizard's don't have spells for that? Ha!" the twitchy, nervous man laughed aloud again, then clamped his hand over his mouth to silence it.

"Good, my friend, good," the hooded man purred, letting the words drag out into a soothing cadence. A gloved hand escaped the shadows that seemed to compose the cloaked figure, holding a bulky leather purse. Jittery hands darted out to form a bowl for the laden pouch to fall into, the satisfying weight of gold coin minted in Lordaeron forcing another half-strangled guffaw from the first man's quivering lips.

"Now go, and know that the master's true reward will soon be visited upon all of those loyal to him, and it will make gold pale in comparison," the hooded man said, shooing the other away like you would a troublesome child. Pausing to first admire the pouch of gold and then looking up and down the street yet again, the lanky informant disappeared down the street, his booted footfalls growing fainter with each passing moment.

The hooded figure stood and began to walk as well, but his footfalls were careful and nearly silent. He would travel all the back streets and alleyways to his destination, where the master's closest servant, Muirdo would be waiting for him, waiting for all those loyal to the cause to return with information about the troublesome meddlers who would try and stop the inevitable. They would be dealt with, most assuredly and with most finality, and then the master's will would shake Theramore to rubble.


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

A door swung open soundlessly on well-oiled brass hinges, allowing a faint light from some unknown and distant source to bring only the slightest of illumination to the room the door opened into. A lone figure, tall and lean, walked past the threshold, moving with calculated familiarity to its target. Fingers grasped and then twisted a small knob, and from the barely perceptible blue ember atop a lamp's wick, a tall and brilliant flame now stood, unmoved by any current due to the fluted glass that sheltered it. The room came into focus now, as did its lone occupant. Dressed in a warm robe that reached to mid-shin and was dyed the hue of a summer sky, with a lavender trim of silk, the elf looked about the room carefully, feeling as if he was being watched. When nothing reached his sharp senses he gave a mild shrug and returned to his original task. Grasped in his left hand was a small text, leather-bound and looking to have had a few previous owners who were less than gentle in it. This tome became the elf's focus yet again, sea-green eyes scouring the text in the book with a studious glint, as the right hand blindly yet competently sought out a secondary objective.

Grasping the thin neck of a finely etched glass decanter, the fingers traced upwards and with only the briefest of a struggle, removed the stopper. Casting only the tiniest of glances in that direction to ensure his pouring would not go errant, the deep red liquid trickled into a bell-shaped wine glass, releasing its sweet fragrance into the immediate area. The elf blew away an errant strand of hair from obscuring his vision while he read, the lock a honey blond color, and bearing the sheen of one who kept himself immaculately groomed and was used to being in the public eye. The right hand's task completed, it replaced the stopper and grasped the wine glass by the stem with three fingers, as the body moved over to a chaise and seated itself. Ever obedient, the right hand moved the glass towards the elf's mouth, but then paused halfway to its destination, the elf peering more intently at a particular passage. There was too, a distant noise now, like some faint roar. The elf seemed not to notice, taking a sip of his wine and holding it in his mouth as he continued to read, his brow lightly creased with lines of concentration. The noise grew slightly louder, as if the source grew closer, or simply louder. Still, the lone reader paid it no mind. There was a blurring of the room then, a shifting of the fine oak furniture within, of the bookshelves laden with their multi-hued namesakes. Suddenly, with a sigh, the entire room was swallowed up by a faint orange glow, like that of someone peering through eye lids at a strong source of light. All the way up to the end, the elf did not stir or notice that anything was amiss.

Crys'annadath had sighed. His concentration was broken for the second time that night by the row created by his two erstwhile companions. He was supposed to be keeping an eye on the elven councilman's home and environs while they physically stayed at the smithy of one Thedor Stonesmite, perhaps the most respected and skilled dwarf in Theramore. Extra guards were posted both visibly and hidden around the elven noble's estate, but considering the gruesome ease at which the Kaldorei assassin had slaughtered a compliment of Moon Guard, they would be a time sink, little more. That is, if their quarry was even out and about tonight, her injury likely keeping her convalescing, unless some magical healing was rendered to her. Preparing a preemptive squint against the bright light of the forge, Crys opened his eyes to the same scene he had been treated to when he first arrived.

The smithy was as physically imposing and sturdy as the smith who worked in it, a small table littered with bones and empty mugs, and a rough cot occupying one corner telling the warmage that this was both a dwelling and a workshop. Great slabs of limestone made up most of the structure's walls and floor, chiseled almost with contempt for the weight of the slabs from the rock on which Theramore sat. Worked smooth but left unpolished the slabs were a cloudy grey color, with a tinge of brown, giving the interior a dull, industrial look. The only ornamentation came from the highly-polished weapons and breastplates hung proudly on the walls, gleaming orange in the ruddy glow of the forge fires. Iron chains hung from the ceiling, blackened by years of exposure to smoke and grasping hands, various bits of unfinished armors hanging like inedible slabs of meat from the hooks on the end of them.

The central forge area was a half-circle that ended with the back wall, sunken two steps below the rest of the interior and with about forty feet of area. The rest of the smithy, moving from the back wall towards the door leading to the street, was composed of large work tables set against the outer walls, lined with stools which top could swivel on a corkscrew-threaded shaft, and give the worker access to the equally long line of tool racks that stood like a fence between the worker and the main thoroughfare in and out of the smithy. Stonesmite, apparently, worked into the wee hours of the morning by himself, getting a large number of rough pieces done for refining and more delicate work by others during the day. It also made him the perfect murder target, always alone in the dead of night, mind occupied on the task at hand rather than some flitting shadow.

Not that, if threatened, the smith would be unable to defend himself. The parallels between smithy and smith were many, as Crys had earlier noted. Great slabs of muscle ending in sausage-thick fingers were the best description the slender elf could come up with for his arms, ill-suited for delicate manipulation, but perfect for pounding shapes out of cherry-red metal with a hammer that must weigh as much as a full suit of mail armor. What would take a human smith five blows to flatten out took the dwarven master smith one, and his prodigious strength one of the keys to him being able to work so fast. Dark eyes glittering like beetle carapaces peered out from under bushy black eyebrows, a mouth that was mostly bottom lip nearly lost completely in the mass of black hair that was the smith's beard, unbraided or adorned in anyway, tucked out of the way behind a well-worn leather smock. A bulbous nose and the very tips of relatively small ears poking out from behind head hair rounded out the dwarf's facial "features". Stonesmite's shoulders were easily half-again as wide as Daghmor's, who was apparently something of a light-weight in the dwarven world. The master smith's broad chest was the only thing massive enough to be able to support arms like his, and short, powerful legs kept it all upright. Crys had heard he had fought in all three wars as well, the thought of one such as Stonesmite wearing plate mail like it were billowy silks and swinging an axe with effortless ease must give more than a few orcs pause before engaging such a warrior.

Speaking of war, it was precisely the subject that was the cause of half the din inside the smithy. Daghmor and Thedor were having an argument as heated as the piece of metal the latter worked on about duty to oneself and ones clan.

" The clan is all! It is greater than all the dwarves in it, just as a mail coat is more than just the links that make it up of. If one link fails, then all those attached to it cannot function as they were intended to, creating a fatal weakness, " Thedor argued heatedly, pounding the sheet of steel before him as if he were trying to pound the idea home into Daghmor's head. The darkly dressed dwarf seated on a stool not far from the anvil had crossed his arms and began shaking his head mid-way through Thedor's statement, obviously not in agreement.

" So as long as three out of five dwarves are happy, then everything's just dandy with the clan? How can you expect the same of someone whom the clan has failed and someone who has met with nothing but success? A clan must look after all its parts, or it has failed at what it was created to do. "

More metallic "clangs" as the smith finished off another cuirass and tossed it aside with the others, his voice gaining an edge as hard as the metal he worked with as he seamlessly moved on to his next task.

" The clan cannot control fate, or even a large number of events in its own holdings. A mature, intelligent clansman would recognize and understand this, so that even if things did not turn out for him, he cannot fault every other dwarf who has it better, or lost less than him, and in turn, the clan he belongs to. "

" I am not talking about losing 'less', I am talking about losing 'all', " the rogue countered bitterly.

Thedor paused in his task long enough to give Daghmor an intense stare, seeming to search him for something. Finally, he returned to his task, mute. Crys could see his friend wanting to say something more, his fingers rolling in indecision, but he too, held his tongue for now. What had passed between them the elf could only guess at, though he would likely would find other mental pursuits before delving into that one. He had enough pain regarding family and obligations to deal with for himself.

Crys found he could never really forget his sister, whom he did not know if she was alive, dead, or something in-between. Regret can hide in even the smallest, most trivial of choices made, but the feelings that lurked inside choosing to leave your only blood relation an ocean away in a land steeped in death and plague, that was something altogether more difficult to resolve. Should he have left? Should he have stayed? How would his life had been different? Would he even be alive right now if he hadn't done what he did do? The warmage would often, during evenings of restlessness, look to the moon and the night sky, wondering if, somewhere, his sister gazed upon that same moon, and thought of him in turn. It would be turning to fall in Silvermoon, or the place that once was Silvermoon. The air would nip at exposed skin in the early morning, the carefully tended trees in the Court of the Arcane turning from glossy viridian to a warm rust color.

Crys hadn't seen what had happened to Silvermoon, to all of Quel'thalas for that matter. His own imaginings held up by a skeletal framework of what Rhell'sardessa had told him could paint as heart-rending an image as any that could be witnessed by his eyes. Quel-thalas had suffered centuries of warfare and siege, but the Quel'dorei had fought with such diligence and ferocity that it had withstood them all. They fought because they knew that it was all they had left, a home carved from the troll-ruled wilderness. To surrender that was to break apart, scatter, become not a race of people, but each some sort of isolated aberration, the last few glowing embers of what had once been such a magnificent fire. But, here he was; alone, barely competent at his duties, and listening to two dwarves bicker about loss. How much heavier than the sheets of metal that he worked with would Thedor's heart be, knowing he would likely never gaze upon the ruined halls of Ironforge again, never see them restored. Then, then these dwarves could talk about duty, and of loss. Crys' eyes stung from all of these thoughts about his homeland, the sudden indulgence of self-pity. Bringing his fingers up to pinch the bridge of his nose he clenched his eyelids tightly closed and breathed a deep, calming breath to settle his emotions. In that tiny moment when all the air had left his lungs, in the space of silence between dwarven voices forming words to lob at one another, Crys heard the sound of finely honed metal being drawn from a leather sheath.

" Quiet, " the wizard said, unmoving from his spot. His tone was low enough that he was barely heard by the two stout dwarves, who looked as if they were unsure of the context in which Crys has said the word. Removing his hand from his face and opening his eyes the elf spoke again;

" They're very quiet, very good. "

The attack came almost noiselessly, the only sounds were Daghmor's stool screeching across the stone floor as he rapidly came to his feet, padding footfalls, and an angry grunt from Thedor. Figures departed from the shadows that housed them, blades blackened with sticky oil barely perceptible in the already poor light. Crys had bolted up and moved closer to Dagh, his mind and body responding to the danger with a quickness that was both familiar and relieving. He had been away from battle for so long he was unsure if he could still handle it. He had moved so rapidly from his seat that his short staff with its hidden blade still rested against the wall near where he had seated himself, but Crys was unconcerned. It was a last resort, far from a wizard's preferred method of attack.

There were five distinct figures hanging near the edges of the forge light, the likelihood of there being more behind them remote. Five were more than enough, coupled with the element of surprise, to fell even a warrior such as Thedor. The Kal'dorei was not amongst them either, her tall and lithe form would have been easy to distinguish from the other, obviously human assassins. Her absence made the elf think, in the fleeting moments before the battle was joined, that there had to be something of a time-line to these murders, and their grisly trophies. To attack without their most skilled and efficient killer…either that, or the elven councilman would soon feel her blade. Crys found he could spare little thought about the distant politician's safety, as his own was being immediately threatened.

Two went at Thedor, obviously their primary target, the smith hefting his trusty hammer to defend himself. One chose to engage Daghmor, the leather-clad dwarf more than eager to fight, his blood obviously heated by the argument between Stonesmite and himself. That left the last two for what was likely determined beforehand to be one of the bigger threats: a spell caster. Silent blades wielded by nearly silent men wove through the warm smithy air. Daghmor nimbly ducked under a sweeping cut, his return blow kicked aside, however, by what was proving himself to be a skilled opponent. Stonesmite's hammer kept the two attackers facing him at bay, sweeping back and forth in a potentially bone-shattering arc. The pair of assailants were not foolhardy enough to try to parry or turn aside such a weapon though, any attempt to do so would likely result in a broken sword or a broken wrist. They bided their time, waiting for the smith to get tired or over-extend himself and thrust in for a quick but telling blow against their unarmored target.

Crys' hands wove in a complex, almost seizure-like pattern, and not a moment too soon as a sword thrust aimed for his throat was only just turned away by a flickering blue shield of pure magic that had encased the wizard. The shield only buying just a few more seconds the elf began another spell immediately, this one was quick, however, and required only a sudden out-pushing of Crys' open palms to his sides. A frozen wave of ice burst outwards from under the warmage's boots, leaving him untouched, but the ice wave, extending out to its maximum radius within the blink of an eye, swallowed the first foot of leg on his two attackers, Daghmor's stool…and Daghmor, who uttered curses first in the sudden shock of numbing pain, and then at the fool wizard who had immobilized him while leaving his opponent free to attack. Crys heard none of this, however, his mind focused solely on his next spell, and his target.

A triumphant sneer on the dwarven rogues' opponent quickly changed to shock as, in middle of a two-handed downward cut meant to cleave as much as Daghmor in half as the man's strength would allow, he felt his body shrink and contort, so fluidly and swiftly that there was no time for pain or words. The dark leathers of the man's armor shrank inwards and, almost like some puffy flower rapidly blooming, thick, white wool replaced it. Landing on all fours the human arms and legs did not remain so for long, shrinking both in length and thickness, the fingers and toes fusing and hardening into hooves. With only a few blue-white sparks of lingering magic drifting up from the newly formed sheep's pelt like drifting embers from a bonfire, there was no way to discern that the harmless and utterly confused livestock standing in the smithy was at one time, a dangerous assassin.

Again, a black-bladed sword slashed at the shield around Crys, weakening it further, causing it to flicker like a nearly gutted candle. He had sacrificed moving out of range of their attacks to deal with Daghmor's opponent, and with the magically conjured ice already started to crack and glisten with moisture from the hot forge fire nearby, they would be able to muscle their way free very soon. Allowing himself only time enough to take two long strides back, Crys began another spell, the drain on his mind starting to tell in the form of sweat drops beading up on his face, and his deep, needy breaths of air. This spell would take care of both his attackers though, Crys' hands twisting and rising as he chanted, ready for the sudden downward thrust that would summon the churning column of fire that would reduce his two principle foes to charred skeletons.

Not exactly knowing their fate, the two assassins did recognize the makings of a spell, and made preparations; one quickly retrieved a dagger from a sheath at the small of his back and tossed it end-over-end at the channeling warmage, while his fellow brought his wrist up to his mouth, and, using his teeth, uncorked a small vial that had been secured widthwise along his outer wrist, downing the faintly luminescent fluid within. The elven wizard was caught. He couldn't abandon the spell so near completion, but knew from past experience that the force of a hearty slap would all that would be required to down his shielding after being weakened so. The dagger passed through the shield with barely a wobble, striking Crys in the muscle just above his left collar bone, and sinking in a good inch-and-a-half. The warmage gasped in pain, the magical pattern that was so near it final, destructive genesis suddenly evaporated from his mind, leaving him pained and keenly aware of the renewed threat the two assassins proved to be. With a sudden grunt and a shattering of ice, the lead assassin pulled his legs free of their frozen prison, charging forward across the unsteady surface that was the remnant of the frost nova spell, sword raised for a killing blow.

With a roar of his own, Daghmor burst free of the ice as well, his attack an inelegant but effective tackle at the man's legs, sending the two of them to land painfully on the uneven ice surface, grappling there. The principle threat taken care of for the time being, Crys focused his attentions on the second one who also was moving forward, a murderous glare in his eyes. Requiring immediate damage, Crys concentrated as best his burning shoulder would allow, his fingertips becoming encased in wispy white energy, then dart-sized fragments of the same energy shooting out from his out-stretched hand, as deadly as any bullet fired from a dwarven musket. Crys gaped when the bullets did not pierce armor and flesh, however, but dissipated like snowflakes against hot metal, not harming--or slowing--him in the least. That black sword looked so very much like the incarnation of death itself as it began its unstoppable decent onto the recoiling wizard. That vial he quaffed not moments ago must have absorbed the energy of the spell, giving him the edge he needed to finally put down this troublesome magic-wielder, Crys thought. With a final, split-second movement and burst of magic, Crys flung out his right hand and made a grasping motion. His short staff leaning against the wall quivered and flew towards him as if thrown by a hearty arm, seeking out its place it was summoned to; the elf's palm.

Crys could only credit the many hours of training he had put himself through in his younger years for the reflexes that today spared his life, the wooden shaft that was suddenly in his hand rising to intercept the blade before it could finish its lethal task. The parry was far from perfect, as Crys quickly found out, the awkward angle created by the newly grasped staff, and the slick, rough surface that the assassin stood on turned the sword blade at an angle. The elf's eyes bulged and a shuddering gasp of pain burst past his teeth as he keenly felt a large portion of his little finger leave his hand, thick drops of blood falling from the staff to mingle with the watery ice at his feet. The attacker cared nothing for this, of course, his blade brought back up for another hacking slice. Gritting his teeth and hearing this pulse pounding in his ear, some small part of Crys felt more alive now that he had in years, slowly pickling himself in strong alcohol, pining for his lost life and family. Here and now, he felt like he had back in the prime of his military days, where it was do or die. The situation was dire, to say the least. Even Thedor's mighty arms were beginning to tire, and while having felled one assailant, the other was managing to score small cuts along the smith's arms and hands, weakening him. Daghmor still wrestled with the man he had tackled, the assassin having pulled himself up a bit and was trying to land a solid blow against the dwarf's back with his sword.

Rejuvenated, the warmage pulled himself up to his full height while deflecting another sword strike, Crys curled the fingers on his left hand and then spread them wide as he pushed outwards. A blast of searing flame and wind struck the attacker in the upper torso and face, causing him to scream and stagger backwards, his exposed skin smoking and blackened by the attack. His nostrils flaring with the deep breaths he took in as his lips were pushed into a thin line Crys then turned his attention to the last attacker on Thedor, no protective potion defending the man against this barrage of magical darts, blood erupting from the sudden ruptures in his flesh. Gritting his teeth against the dagger still buried in his shoulder Crys reached down with his left hand and drew the hidden blade out from the staff top with a keen metallic ringing. Adjusting his grip on staff made slick with his own blood the injured wizard lunged at the burned attacker, pushing his floundering blade aside and then performing a rising cut from right to left. The blade dug deeply into the armpit, where nothing but cloth lay, a large spurt of blood telling Crys he had struck a major blood vessel like he had been aiming to. Naturally right-handed, the warmage had made certain that he was trained enough in his off-hand to be effective, a non-functional sword arm a premature death sentence to even a skilled swordsman.

Assured that the burned assassin would bleed out quickly, Crys'annadath at last turned to the one that Daghmor wrestled with, his blade intercepting the dark-clothed man's sword and disarming him with a twist of the handle. Free of the threat of the blade, Daghmor actually chuckled and worked his way upwards, punching the man liberally as he went, until he sat astride the man's chest and was pounding his frustrations out on the flailing man's face. Crys was just turning back to see how Thedor fared when he heard a great 'thud' and the wet cracking of bones still mired in muscle and blood breaking. The mage just caught the end of the polymorphed assassin reverting back into his human form, albeit dead, his back crushed by the smith's great hammer. Sighing at the loss of what would be a healthy prisoner, the elf turned back to where Daghmor continued to pound on the rapidly weakening assassin.

" Keep him alive. We'll see what their leader allowed them to know about their operations in the city, which likely won't be much. "

The dwarven rogue just nodded and continued pummeling.

The floor of the smithy was a mess of watery blood and chunks of ice, Crys' robe around his shoulder plastered to his skin with blood from the dagger, and blood still snaking its lazy way down the staff his injured hand held.

" I thank ye, wizard, " Thedor said suddenly, turning the warmage's attention back to the smith. His arms oozing from a half-dozen cuts and chest rising and falling like a great bellows, Stonesmite offered his meaty hand to him.

" When I first saw you I thought I would be doing most of the fighting if we were attacked. I don't mind being wrong in cases like this. It's been awhile since I've felt the rush of battle stir these old limbs, it was a nice change from pounding out steel all night, " he continued, surveying the carnage much like Crys had just moments before. A small smile worked itself out of the wizard's frown of concentration, and he sheathed his sword back into the short staff's top, about to take the dwarf's offered hand.

" I know what you mean. I haven't engaged in anything this brutal for…many… " Crys began, but suddenly his face felt flush and the room spun around him. His collapse to the floor was unfelt by him, already unconscious by the time his head struck the smithy floor.


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Wake up dead. That particular paradox was the first conscious thought to form itself into Crys' head as he slowly began to surface from the depths of slumber. The first sensation he felt, unfortunately, was pain. Dull, throbbing, but distinct and unpleasant. The pain of wounds barely mended. It was during his extended convalescence shortly before and during the destruction of Dalaran that Crys had set a precedent on the next conundrum; slip back into blissful darkness, or wake up and face reality. The warmage was rarely in a situation where he could afford to coddle himself, and sometimes you just had to stop turning your head aside and take your medicine.

The familiar sight of his chambers came into gradually increasing focus as his eyelids peeled themselves from their ocular charges. His body was stiff from all the activity and stress of the previous night (how long ago had it actually been?) and he shifted, then regretted it as the movement made the dagger wound in his shoulder pulse angrily. Ah yes, that one. The elf's hair felt like it clung to his scalp, but a quickly sharpening mind and grasp on the situation corrected the assessment by concluding it was, in fact, bandages and not hair. Simultaneously, Crys noticed that he was not alone in the chamber, that Daghmor sat perched on a wooden chair with a padded seat by the chamber door, half-empty snifter in hand, and his brain reminded him of something terribly important and almost forgotten till that moment. His right hand. The sword blade.

His eyes never leaving the dwarf but instead changing focus as the elf's right hand moved mechanically into his line of sight. There, neatly bandaged with a tight little bow at the base of the finger, was what was left of his smallest digit on that hand. It had been severed from the first knuckle down, and, while logically it seemed such a small thing to lose in a life-or-death struggle, Crys' logic couldn't fully suppress the feeling of being diminished somehow. Something that had been used, stubbed, pointed, manipulated, cut, and stained over the course of his whole life was simply not there anymore. Daghmor grunted as he regarded the prone wizard's dismay, shaking his head and speaking into his brandy glass he had supped a tiny amount of the throat-burning liquid.

" Healers. I've seen those that can raise the recently dead back to life, but they'll be damned if they can re-attach a severed extremity like half a finger. It's like a smith bein' able to bang out a suit of full-plate but unable ta make even a single ring for a suit of chain mail. "

Crys shook his head, pushing himself to an upright position with his left arm instead of his right to avoid more unnecessary pain.

" Or fully cure a leg crushed by a catapult shot, " the elf added. " I consider myself lucky though, it could have just as easily been all fingers, or hand, or forearm. I can still wield magic and handle the logistics of dressing myself quite well, I can't complain

over-much. "

" And I can still dodge a sword blow and give a man half-again as tall as me the thrashing of his lifetime, " the rogue returned, tilting his glass in a mock toast to the fates.

" Ah yes, the unfortunate you roughed up. He survived it I assume? "

" Broke his jaw, so he won't be talking fer awhile, but that paladin, Strongshield, said they've got mages for interrogations anyways. "

The embers of a headache flared up somewhere behind Crys' eyes, the pain previously lying dormant by his inactivity. Crys could also feel the pain being stoked by each beat of his heart, as if the pain in his right hand and shoulder were not bad enough. Wincing, his faculties now coming back to their usual vigor, he asked;

" What of Thedor, and the elven councilman? "

Daghmor pursed his lips before speaking, staring off as if he were reciting something trivial or redundant.

" The smith got his cuts all bandaged up and still made his quota for the night. Probably feel asleep on the same cot we saw there, getting some poor apprentice to mop up all the blood and water. I suppose, as a dwarf I should respect that, but, I'm not a masochist. Haven't been for a long time. "

As the dwarf spoke Crys reached up with his right hand, then returned it to the bed covers, and reached up with his left hand, fingers exploring the linen circlet wrapped around his head. His wince became more pronounced as his fingers drifted over the spot where…what had happened there, exactly?

Daghmor had looked back to the prone wizard, noting his inability to understand the bandages encircling his crown.

" That bump on your head was probably the worst injury you took, the healers said. Concussion, and split the skin open too, bled like crazy but once it was cleaned up it wasn't too bad. Everything else was flesh wounds, nothing permanent except scars…like we both need any more of those. "

Crys remembered now, though not clearly. He was speaking with the smith after the fight, and that was it. He must have blacked out. Considering the circumstances it was understandable.

" What of the elven councilman? " the warmage queried, remembering his line of questioning.

The rogue gave a small shrug. " Dunno. I was only able to speak to the paladin for a few breaths before they came in with a stretcher for you. They looked me over too and sent me on my way. "

Crys gave a small nod in understanding, still wanting for information about the other potential target, but unable to satisfy it for the moment.

Eyes squinting and jaw muscles tight against the mounting pain Crys swung his legs over the side of the bed, noting that he was wearing a blue silk tunic and a pair of rough wool leggings dyed black. A quick search turned up his clothing and other accruements resting atop a small writing desk that occupied the far corner of the room. His clothes looked laundered too. His search ended as his eyes rested on the room's only window, facing south and shuttered currently.

" What time is it? "

" We will be hearing the bells for the third watch presently, I think, " the dwarf replied distractedly, draining his glass and licking the last of the flavorful liquor from his lips.

The elf sat dumbfounded, until a chuckle and a response from the dwarven rogue ended his confusion.

" You've been out for nearly four watches, lad. Almost a full day, " Daghmor said, bringing a finger up and tapping his temple, " as I said, the blow to the head was your worst injury. Trust an elf to swoon in the middle of a battle, " he jibed, grinning broadly.

Crys sniffed, fixing his companion with a withering gaze.

" It was not the middle of the battle, but one that was over. Three of them had fallen to me directly, and I had a hand in the other two, and all two thick-skulled dwarves were able to do is hold them at bay. This on top of a dagger in the shoulder, a severed albeit small appendage, and a considerable amount of blood loss…" the elven warmage responded acidly, but Dagh interrupted him with more chuckling and a dismissive waving of his hand.

" Aye, aye. They'll be singing praises of your prowess for years to come. I especially like the part where your ice spell trapped your daring companion as well as your assailants. "

Crys opened his mouth for another rejoinder but instead snapped it shut. He was in too much pain and too weary for this foolishness. That ember of pain was now a cheerfully burning fire of agony, and his stomach was a yawning pit of hunger paired with the icy touch of the magic addiction, gnawing at his reserves of strength. Rising stiffly to his feet the elf wizard wished for his staff now more than ever, shuffling to the bedroom's door. He paused there, his expression freeing itself from its previous mask of resolute wincing, becoming one a mixture of both incredulousness and surprise.

" You remained here with me, the whole time? " Crys asked, a grin splaying across his face as he watched an equally stiff Daghmor slide from the straight-backed chair, " I didn't know you felt so deeply for me. "

" Ah now don't be getting sentimental on me. I was just making sure my meal ticket made it through the night, " the rogue smirked, reaching down and jingling a coin purse filled with its namesakes. " That, and your brandy is excellent. Now come on, we'll get you something to eat, a soft chair to sit in by the fire, and make you the envy of every dwarf who ever lived; by having the headache first but getting to the drinking after. "

A plate of pan-seared chicken breasts in a white wine and shallot sauce with a side of diced fried potatoes, a snifter of the remainder of the excellent Mclure brandy that Daghmor had not yet gotten to, and a comfortable chair by the fire later, Crys was feeling considerably better. The nausea he had experienced when first awaking yielded to the excellently prepared meal made by Greymere Tower's ever-present kitchen staff, and returning to a more or less immobile state cradled by the green velvet of his easy chair Crys'annadath did not suffer the full brunt of his headache or other pains any longer. Daghmor had contented himself with tackling the rest of the robust red wine he had enjoyed with nearly all of a beef roast eaten some time earlier, the elf too sedate to make a fuss over the dwarf drinking it from a pewter stein.

" Of all the things to miss from the old world, I wouldn't have guessed that this would have been one of the most painful to see leave, " the elven wizard mused, regarding the finger of brandy he had remaining in his nearly ball-shaped glass, then scowling darkly over the painful pun that his mind had created regarding a measure of alcohol and his recently severed extremity. Daghmor nodded sagely at the statement, serious about few things as much as his booze.

" Aye, lad. Aye. I'm fortunate enough that there's some passable brewers in Theramore that come over with the ships to make ale like there was back in Ironforge. Just a pity they have to charge so much because the grains are so scarce and most goes to flour making. "

Crys swirled the dark liquid around to agitate the flavors and sniffed gently, detecting the hint of apple that had been added during distillation.

" This brandy was the best anyone could reasonably afford back on Lordaeron. The Mclure Vineyards accounted for nearly a third of the total wine and brandy production for Azeroth, and the cognacs, well, they were reserved for the royal and distinguished noble households only. I could purchase an entire farm for the cost on one of those bottles, " the warmage shook his head at the thought, his previous scowl disappearing.

" Ever tried some of that Darkspear rum? Made me think twice about swinging an axe at a troll, if you can believe it. "

Crys snorted and shook his head in disbelief. " In Silvermoon you could get thrown out of most reputable establishments for even saying the word 'troll'. I wouldn't trust anything that comes from the kegs of a race that can grow back severed limbs, " he remarked, then grinding his teeth as something related to his recent finger injury had managed to crop up again.

" We can't afford to be picky, you and I. Far too few dwarven lasses came over with the ships, and whatever passes for elven women too. Ones like us, we need our vices to keep us going, and I'll take a good ale over some long-legged human girl any day of the month. But then, I'm not you… " Dagh's chuckle bouncing around the inside of this stein as he took another drink.

" Another jibe at my infatuation with Jaina. How droll, " the elf commented dryly, about to make a scathing counter-point when there was a knock at the door. The two regarded one another as if one would suddenly draw a conclusion as to who it was, but when no revelation was forthcoming, Crys rose reluctantly from his chair and shuffled over to the door.

The door's magicks having been temporarily disabled as the then unconscious Crys had been carried in, but had long since then resumed their incapacitating power. Speaking the disarming command quickly in case the visitor decided to get impatient and try the door handle, Crys'annadath opened it and the broad frame of Strongshield in his plate armor was revealed in the fading light of day. Plumed helmet tucked under one arm the paladin of the Silver Hand bowed his head slightly in greeting before speaking.

" Good eve. I trust you are feeling better than you did the night previous? "

It was the typical sort of pleasantry one would exchange before getting to the heart of the matter, and one which Crys, injuries throbbing again from this movement, was all to happy to dispense with quickly.

" I'll mend. What news do you have of the elven councilman. My companion had said you had no time to speak on the subject last night. "

Strongshield nodded. " Quite. I had decided to remain at the councilman in question's estate last night, along with a hand-picked cadre of my guards. We weren't wanting for activity. Five assassins were sent, just like at the smithy, though the councilman was no sort of war hero. We took two captives from that little encounter, making three including the one that the dwarf had beaten to a pulp, " the paladin continued, glancing past Crys as a gesture to the still unseen rogue.

" The interrogations were thorough, Lady Proudmoore herself taking a short time from her schedule to mind probe one of the prisoners. The results, were, however, predictably disappointing. The usual drill of former militia men with no war to fight and no skills other than warfare down on their luck and blaming the establishment for their woes. We're looking into what contacts we've managed to get from them, but I'm more than willing to bet we'll find it to be a cell-based organization with no two of the same contacts between any of them. The typical and ideal set up for a resistance movement. The disturbing part is the somewhat religious zeal that the assassins have regard this 'Master' of theirs, more cult sounding than any sort of military-guerilla cabal. "

" That usually happens when magic is involved, " Crys interjected quickly. " Magic is the province of god-like beings when perceived by lay folk, but more closely related to the working of a wood-wind instrument in practice. That, coupled with the necromantic hallmarks of the organ collection and disposal of the first body, I'm not at all surprised. "

Strongshield shifted his weight as Crys spoke of cults and necromancy, remaining impassive until the elf was finished. " Yes. Well at any rate, despite the apparent organization of this group, the acceleration of their schedule to two a night, and moving forward without their most skilled killer speaks volumes about their desired time-table, one which with our respective operations have foiled. We managed to recover the tell-tale notes that were to have been left on the bodies. The one for the dwarven smithy read 'every death and I get stronger ' while the one that was going to be left on the councilman's corpse was; ' the streets shall drink deep the blood of man'. Grisly poetics are rarely the trademark of the sound-minded military sort, and sounding very much like this was all leading up to something grander, some bloody finale. What remains now is whether this organization will strike again, more violently and desperately now that they are close to their goal, or abandon it for fear of making a critical error that will lead us to the major players in all of this. "

Crys could only nod in agreement at that assessment. The collected body parts had some sort of significance other than random mutilation, and with whatever that purpose was, anybody who was willing to cut out hearts and drain blood would have few compunctions about doing whatever was necessary to see their plans realized. This was almost over, but the time for counting bodies may not be.

" Thank you for the report, Sir Strongshield. Will there be anything else? " the elven warmage prompted.

The paladin nodded and took a step forward, leaning in close to the wizard. " Bar my doors and windows for the next few nights, I would if I were in your place. It may not be just needing a dwarf and an elf dead that brings some vengeful persons to your chambers in the dead of the night. I'll post more guards by the tower base, and I know full well the sorts of wards and spells present in a wizard's home, but be wary all the same. You both are too involved in this not to have been noticed by the cult's leaders. "

The concept was so obvious that Crys nearly stuck himself for not having come to the conclusion sooner. They would have made the perfect pair, the proverbial two birds with one stone. The warmage had been so involved in picking the crimes and events apart that he had failed to remember that he had, in turn, become a part of them. The paranoia that had touched him when he first learned about these murders fairly grabbed him now.

" Yes. Of course. It was foolhardy of me not have seen it earlier. Thank you. Safe travels to you as well. "

With that Strongshield did a shallow bow of farewell, and after wheeling sharply to his right and re-adjusting his grip on his helm, began descending the spiral stairs. Still in a bit of a daze Crys closed the door and recited the door's protective ward, slowly returning to his seat. The elf admitted that he had been lucky to this point, the shadowy organizer of these series of assassinations too focused on his own goals and agenda to be bothered with a semi-retired drunk of a wizard and his ne'er-do-well companion poking their noses into their business after the fact. But now, however….

" So what did the mustachioed suit of armor say? " Daghmor asked, noting the concerned look on the elf's face as he returned to the fire side. Crys had to blink rapidly a few times to bring himself out of his introspective state. It wasn't the thought of someone wishing him dead that troubled the wizard so much, but the fact that he hadn't seriously entertained the concept until now.

" Just that there wasn't much to be learned from the prisoners that they managed to get, and that we should be guarding our backs a little more closely now that we've managed to throw a rather large stick into the spokes of their wagon wheel. "

Daghmor just nodded, nonplussed. " True enough. They'll likely be sending ten men after you and me if they send one. Can't afford any slip-ups or failures at this stage of the game. "

Crys was agape at the dwarf's calm in the face of a possible assassination. Daghmor noticed the look and chuckled in his trademark way. " What's the fuss? Never slept with a weapon under your pillow waiting for that fellow caravan guard down on his luck who's been eyeing your boots all day to make a move? Never hid behind a few crates of rotting apples in an alley while a thug and several of his friends scoured the area for you looking to settle an old gambling debt? What do they teach you in those alabaster towers of magecraft, hmm? "

The elf had forgotten the sort of circles that Daghmor had done some running in during his past. Years of rough nights under the open stars or cramped jail cells, waiting from an attack from bandits or fellow inmates. Military life was tough enough, but at least there the vast majority of soldiers slept amongst their fellows, fellows they could trust their lives with and often did. Frankly, it was a world Crys wanted nothing to do with.

" Would you believe that in my graduating class of wizardry from Dalaran I was voted least likely to die in a gutter with a shiv in my back? "

" Don't fret, lad. There's time enough for all that to happen yet. "

Time, like grains of sand, was slipping between his clawed fingers, and Suul Dracol was possessed of the most intense anger because of it. All of the assassins he had sent out had met with failure, either dead or detained. His choice of agents in Theramore was pretty much limited to ex-military men down on their luck and walking along the border between honest work and a drunk in a gutter somewhere, and while they knew how to swing a sword, the fine art of stealthy killing was beyond their grasp. Suul thought he had sent his best, but once again the has-been elf mage and his drunkard guttersnipe companion had proven the stronger. Suul needed Golonda, with but one day left to complete his objectives. Considering the alternative made the dreadlord even angrier, snatching up a rat that been set aside for experiments and took some pleasure in slowly crushing the furry rodent to death in his supernaturally strong grip.

Leetha. He needed Leetha. Now.

Gripping onto the thought like a drowning man onto a piece of flotsam Suul tossed the ruined body of the rat to some remote corner and concentrated on summoning his servant, whispering her name past his ivory fangs, pushing the sound out with his long pointed tongue. Moments passed, and Suul's rage began to increase again, stoked by his impatience, but he soon felt the unearthly chill of his servant as she rose out of the stones behind him, from her dreadful sleep in some dark and forgotten tunnel that had collapsed and suffocated three dwarven excavators, curled up on their moldering bones like a cat on a plump cushion.

The Nathrezim regarded the banshee as he had many times before, his dark heart enraptured by her eternal torment, her talent with suffering and pain. An expert torturer she could drain tiny snippets of happy memories with the barest rake of her inhumanly long fingers tipped in splintered fingernails as black as rot. Slowly, ever so slowly the torture victim would be unable to seek refuge in his memories of better times, as disjointed and unsatisfying as they had become, and tell her everything she wanted to know…which was only the beginning of his pain. Hope was a torturer's greatest foe, and Leetha disposed of that little obstacle as easily as a more conventional masochist discarded used, blood-caked bandages. She was perfect for this job.

She was elven, all banshees were, her angular and delicate features more drawn and sallow looking in her current incorporeal state. She was draped in a ghostly dress that drifted into empty tatters rather than legs, the plunging neckline revealing perhaps the only overtly pleasant feature about her, cleavage lush enough that it could, if only for a tiny moment, take the focus off of her other more horrific aspects. The irises of her almond-shaped eyes were the only bit of color left on her ghostly form, everything else was shades of grey and white. Like frozen water those pale blue eyes were, the thin kind that promised safe passage but instead lead to a freezing, choking death with no chance of escape. Suul loved her eyes, her way of looking at everyone and everything with only the purest of thought processes going through her mind: how can I inflict more suffering on this thing before me?

The banshee's cool, calculating gaze soothed Dracol somewhat, knowing he dealt with one who took her tasks seriously because, just like Golonda, Leetha had a debt to pay. The dreadlord extended his right arm in a scooping motion, and with only the slightest pause the undead elf presented the back of her right hand, the demon cradling her fingers gently and pressing his lips to her ethereal flesh. The contact burned pleasantly, like it always did, a rush of cold necromantic fire against his thin lips. Rising up from his slightly stooped position as his left hand sought out a small leather pouch hanging from his belt, then when his right had abandoned Leetha's hand it retained its cupped position as he poured the contents of the pouch into his palm. Two pale objects landed into his hand, there were the only two left. The pair of objects were fingers, desiccated and leathery, the fingernails long since fallen off. The slim, tapering fingers of a woman who had strangled her child. Leetha's fingers.

" Two, " the banshee said breathlessly, her words lingering in the air long after her mouth had ceased to move, " only two more remain, Suul, then I am free to do as I please. "

This had part of the reason he had been reluctant to summon her previous, but times were getting desperate and all his resources would be meaningless if he failed in this task. Simple things like torture were done _pro bono_, as it were, the always banshee eager to inflict torment and misery on a new victim still full of life, but for more complex and extended tasks (not to say that Leetha's torture victims didn't last a long time) required the expenditure of these tokens of Suul's control over her.

" It hasn't been too hard on you, has it dear? " the dreadlord placated, his features creasing into a look of concerned worry. " Your time with me has been full of pain and suffering, is that not a reason to stay in and of itself? "

The ghostly elf shrugged slightly, that tiny movement enough to, had she been living and wearing an actual dress as tattered as that one, have left her torso nude.

" Servitude to you has been a duet of torments, Suul. The torment inflicted during my service, and from my service. I seek freedom to realize my own goals. There's many who must die, slowly, and only the consolation of knowing that every year that passes gives me more happy memories to eventually strip away keeps me patient. Now, the task. You wouldn't have brought those things into my sight unless you needed something more this time, or have you taken to torturing me in your free time? " she pouted, her movements and facial expression would have been charming in their feminine way were her appearance not so the antithesis of a mortal woman.

Maneuvering one of the fingers into his grasp Suul Dracol tossed it into the air at her like one would a treat to a loyal hound, and with a mouth that distended like that of a serpent swallowing an egg, and a wobbling of spectral breasts, the finger disappeared inside Leetha. She chewed eagerly, the finger turning to black ash then nothing as it traveled down her translucent neck, once again becoming a part of her. Leetha didn't actually require any nourishment and possessed all of her digits in her ghostly form, but the lingering emotion charge left on those fingers of a murderer, sealed away with nether magics, was what she relished. A step closer to completion, and freedom.

Suul returned the last withered finger to the pouch and replaced the pouch on his belt.

" Oh Suul, I will miss our times together. I might be persuaded to stay a bit longer if you were to give me that Kaldorei female you have on your leash. I can feel her anger and sorrow twenty feet below her chambers. So much death and cruelty in the name of lost love, " she squealed, the following growl of hunger from the base of her throat almost sexual in tone. Suul fairly shivered at her demeanor, the shudder nothing less than a display of utter rapture.

" We will see, dear Leetha, " Suul began, showing all his teeth in a broad, feral grin,

" but now, the task at hand. Let me tell you all we know about a cleaning maid named Sarah…. "


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Early evening became late evening, and with oil lamps lit Crys and Daghmor continued their drinking and discussing, the elf's fears about assassins creeping up the tower's staircase easing, being surrounded by the comforts of a fire, one of the precious few people Crys would consider a friend, and the port wine he had opened after swallowing the last of the Mclure brandy with a wistful sigh.

The topics were diverse and the conversation animated, pitching back and forth between the tones of derisive and deadly serious, and everything in-between. Neither of the two had much of an opportunity to discuss things freely with another in months, and with the added loosening of tongues by the alcohol, they could go for hours.

" So then the gnomes replies; 'it's not the size of the cockatrice that matters, it's what you do with its eye that counts', " Daghmor managed to sputter out between boisterous guffaws. Crys, nearly spilling the contents of his small liquor glass on the rug, burst into a hysterical giggle, then calmed himself somewhat only to have more rapid-fire chuckles slip past his pursed lips.

" He actually said that to a pair of Kaldorei women? "

" Aye, he was as red as a newly sliced cut of beef after realizing what he said, but the two of them figured that they weren't hearing him properly and just smiled politely. "

" Was the cut of beef from the loin? " Crys asked with mock seriousness, sending the two of them into another fit of laughter. Tears and straggling huffs of laugh later the two sat red-faced and with sore bellies, and in the case of Crys, angry wounds, slouching in their respective chairs comfortably. A bottle and a half had been downed between the two of them, and there were no signs of slowing.

Almost feverishly warm from both the booze rushing through their systems and the fire, the two companions stared off into space for awhile, lost in their own thoughts. Eventually, Crys squirmed in his chair, adjusting his weight and watching with a mild interest as Dagh did the same, picking up the ever-present polished wooden club from his side and running both his fingers and his eyes over the various whorls and knots in the wood in the firelight. A question cropped up into the warmage's mind, one that, stone sober and possessing a faculty known as tact he might have avoided should the question lead to an uncomfortable answer, but seeing how he was not the first and was in danger of losing the second entirely by this point, he spoke.

" Why do you call that club 'Matilda'? "

Daghmor's eyes left the club's gleaming surface for a moment only to return to it as he debated the answer, or debated speaking the answer.

" It reminds me of the nose of the first girl I ever loved. I've had it for almost as long as I've been out of the army, destined to be a piece of firewood had it not struck me that it reminded me of her. "

Crys began to chuckle at the thought of a dwarven woman with a nose as thick and knotted as the club, but the laughter died quickly as he noticed that Daghmor hadn't joined him. He continued to look the simple weapon up and down, his eyes distant and unfocused. Sitting up straighter, the wizard frowned slightly, his tone a little more serious as he addressed the rogue a second time.

" I don't remember you ever talking about her before. You've mentioning something about a girl you knew back in Dun Morogh, and I've thought of why you had decided to name your club in such a way, but you've never… " Crys trailed off, the sudden change in the dwarf's demeanor making him wonder if he had verbally stumbled into some awkward personal topic. A silence passed between then, long and uncomfortable, but Dagh broke it by clearing some emotion from his throat and speaking softly and slowly his answer.

" I had met Matilda one night when me and the rest of the boys from the Forty-ninth Ironforge Brigade were drinking up a storm in Kharanos, fresh out of training and with money and steam to blow at the Thunderbrew place. It was as rowdy as it gets in there, combat training and the pain-dulling effects of alcohol were a requirement, you as likely to meet a punch in the face as a tankard to clink in a toast whenever you turned. There were plenty of barmaids there that night, stocky and smiling, low-cut bodices all jingling with silver coins as the lads all gave a tip and got a feel at the same time. I was one of them, a wet-behind-the-ears short beard with only a few dead trolls under my belt, but if you had asked me back then I was the finest warrior under the mountain. Soothing a lip split moments before by a clumsy back hand from a brawl I wasn't really a part of one of the maids walked up beside me out of my peripheral vision and started cleaning up

mugs. "

" I decided I wanted to spread a little of my hard-earned cash around with some of the lasses, maybe seeing if I could get some company for later on in the night too. I turned to her, silver coin between my index and middle fingers and with the giggle more suited for a boy than a grown dwarf shoved them down that cavernous cleavage. It was when I looked to her face that I froze, to a pair of eyes the color of new steel looking at me past a large and knobby noise. I stared. I couldn't help it, not as lack-witted as I was at the time. Adjusting her heavy tray she stared back at me, a look between tired resignation and growing irritation on her lightly freckled face.

" Look mate, you leaving a tip or looking for a place to stay for the night? " she sighed finally. Her bodice didn't jingle like the others had, and I was fairly certain why, considering the reason I was staring at her. My fingers slipped free and my eyes dropped, her tone like a bucket of cold water over my giddy mood. Muttering something under her breath she finished her task and walked hastily away, my eyes following after her. "

" I felt terrible. She wasn't lacking in other charms, to be sure. As solid and well-developed as any dwarf could ask, hair the color of newly minted coppers, breasts like, er, well, you get where I'm going with this. After that I could only sip at my drinks and search for her through the crowd, barely taking my eyes off of her when I stopped to put a fellow trooper in a headlock and gave him a solid rap on the skull with a stein for saying Brewnall's Best Bitter was worlds better than Thunderbrew's Dark Lager. I tell ye, lad, a dwarf off his drink is a sad sight. "

" Well, the night wore on, dwarves staggered out or were tossed out, and the crowd began to thin. I stayed until there was naught left but barmaids cleaning up the floors and tables, and a few drunks sleeping off their beer in out-of-the-way corners. Without really thinking about it I started helping righting tables, prying chairs apart, and giving some of the waking drunks the old heave-ho into a snow bank to speed the process up. Matilda, though I didn't know she was called that yet, cast a few glances at me but said nothing, there was too much work to be done for chit-chatting anyways. So, with an aching back and the sun already turning the skies grey, the maids began tallying up their tips, a sight that made me glad I had stuck around, with all the jostling and searching that was involved. Matilda stood apart from the rest, counting out a few coins and slipping them into a waist pouch. She didn't have a quarter of what the others brought in, tossing a shawl over her shoulders and frazzled hair and making for the door. By now the tavern keeper was giving me the eye, hand on an axe handle and gesturing to the door with his head. I had stayed as long as I needed to anyways. "

" I followed Matilda out, I could see her stiffen as she felt me fall in behind her, and her pace was quick and deliberate once she was outside. ' Wait up,' I had called, and she slowed, then stopped, half turning towards me, hands crossed defensively across her ample chest.

' Can I walk ye home? ' I asked, able to face down a berserk troll but unable to look into her steel hard eyes as I did. She said nothing for a bit, looking me up and down, vapor gusting from her nostrils in the chilly morning air.

' That depends what you are expectin' when we get there, ' she said finally, a bit of a bitter tone in her voice.

' I just wanted to see you to yer door, miss. I won't set a whisker inside if you don't permit it. '

She thought about this for awhile, and when she answered her tone had softened somewhat.

' Alright, but keep up and keep yer hands to yerself. '

I nodded and took up a place beside her, not too close like, and we started walking. It turned out that she lived in a small cottage about half a mile down the road, coming close to the tunnel leading to Anvilmar. She let herself in, turning in the door frame to look at me. I looked her in the eyes this time, not her nose or any other part, and she looked in mine.

' What's your name, ' she asked me.

' Private Daghmor Darkdelve. I'm sorry about earlier, I didn't mean to… ' I said, breaking contact with those eyes again, ashamed. Matilda pressed her lips into a firm line, cocking her head slightly.

' S'alright. You aren't the first and won't be the last. I can't help the way people think just like I can't help the way the Makers made me. '

I nodded, daring to look up at her again.

' Seems a pity, the other maids making ten times what you do in tips. '

Matilda shrugged. ' Life's rarely fair, and nobody's told me different. Adversity makes us stronger like the tempering of hot steel. Both as a man and a solider you should know this. '

I nodded to this wisdom, but it still didn't make the world seem right again.

' I should leave you alone, you worked twice as hard as any of the other barmaids, even if you made less coin for your troubles, good morrow to you. '

I turned to leave, stomping away a few paces before hearing her voice call after me, softer than I had ever heard it before.

' My name's Matilda, if you be wondering. I'd rather you know my name than thinking of me as that maid with the big nose in your memories. '

I stopped and turned back to her, bowing my head in acknowledgement and apology.

' Sorry Miss Matilda, I'm too besotted and brainless besides to even ask a name of you. I'm glad you have my name, so you can remember me by it and not as that rude drunk that walked you home one night. '

' You're drunk, yes, but you're not as bad as all that if given half a chance. Your mammy raised you with a good sense of guilt, and any man who listens to his mammy is one I wouldn't mind walking home with again. '

I brightened at this, standing a little straighter.

' I'll try and convince my buddies to come drinking again some night, ' I smirked at the concept of having to convince that lot to down a few pints at any time, ' and we'll have our walk. '

She gave a small smile of her own and nodded, watching me until her door closed with a 'thump'.

" Well lad, I don't have to get into the nitty-gritty to skip ahead a few months to the point where we were spending time together more and more, and not just at the tavern. My friends were mocking me something fierce when they first found out, but a few solid blows and bloodied noses later and they learned not to bring it up around me anymore. Matilda, my lad, she was something a dwarf can only dream about. She could near knock the jaw off anyone doing anything she didn't like, drink like a demon, shoot a bear dead at fifty paces with a single shot, and cook…her boar ribs were as good as anything that came off of mammy's spit…nay, rest her soul and damn mine, better than my mammy's. There were other things too, but I won't be getting into those, " Daghmor chuckled fondly at the memories and at Crys's growing unease.

" But, duty came calling in the shape of the Horde swept over the country side, rising up from the south like a tide of green skin and bloody axes. The duty of defending the dwarven lands was given to the most seasoned and hardy, and while my blood boiled at the thought of being forced away from my beloved homeland while it was in peril, the king had seen a need to send a portion of his armies further north, to give what help could be rendered to a newly forming alliance as the survivors from Stormwind and Azeroth sought sanctuary in the kingdom of Lordaeron. My good-bye to Matilda was all sorts of blubbering and other un-manly things, she and all those from out-lying towns being evacuated to Ironforge to await the coming of the orcs. She would be as safe in the heart of the city as she would be anywhere I was. "

" You don't need a reminder of the second war, lad, and there's much I wouldn't like to remember either. Quel'thalas had its share of action and losses in that war, but you all were defending your home. I was defending the homes of humans hundreds of miles away, each day wondering if the orcs had broken through the gates. Those were the days of bitterness and blood. All we could do were sing songs that used to echo off stone walls like they should and drink terrible human ale by night, fighting and dying and bleeding during the days. It was a long, terrible struggle. The number of dwarves kept dwindling, being buried on foreign soil, neither setting foot nor eye on their home again. But we pushed them back. All their demons, dragons, undead, trolls, ogres, it all fell apart around their ugly ears and we sent them packing. We pushed them hard all the way back across the Thandol Span, trimming dozens or hundreds from their rear ranks daily. Each step was bringing us a step closer to home, and the dwarves were always at the front because of this. Then there was the glorious day we set our eyes on the gates of Ironforge again, scarred, battered, but still standing strong. Even though our mood was dulled by the sight of the devastation we saw across the entire valley, the cut trees, clear mountain streams fouled with garbage and chemicals from goblin mercenaries. Horrible. "

" What really hurt, though, was there was no time to rest and rebuild. Not yet. I had to watch the gates of my home pass me by once again as we continued to push the Horde all the way back to the Black Morass. Their backs to the proverbial wall the orcs fought us tooth and nail, and our advance slowed. Months passed, and only the thought of returning to Matilda a deserter kept me from slipping away one night and seeking her out. They would have opened the gates by now, I had thought as we sat in that rotten swamp, swatting at winged bloodsuckers as big as my hand. She would return to her little cottage, or have started rebuilding it, and when I got back there, nearly a year after he had last seen her, I was sure I was going to ask her to marry me. It was during the final push on the Dark Portal that I got hit by that catapult round. The Horde had set up everything they had left, a massive wall of green orc and pink ogre backed by every troll still with them, and every catapult that could still roll. That last charge was the most terrifying and powerful moment I've experienced in all my years. Two sides clashing on that marshy ground, one enraged beyond reason by the suffering and destruction they had endured at the hands of the first, and the second making its final stand with no way to escape for the majority of them. "

" Catapults are siege weapons, I think even you know that much about conventional warfare. They have the power to shatter foot-thick wooden gates, smash apart stone and mortar, cave in walls. When the orcs released those spiked stones as we charged, there wasn't a blessed thing in all the world that could save those souls crushed by one. You expect in most fights that skill, armor, position in the ranks, they should all account for something, even if it isn't much. Nay. Even after seeing what strafing runs from the captured dragons the Horde had could do, you could still try to predict its flight path, shoot at it with a bow to get it to bank away, something, but not here. We were packed too tightly onto what small amount of solid ground there was for anything like that to occur. You could just look at the big ball of death arcing toward you and make peace with the Light. "

" I was lucky, " Daghmor chuckled humorlessly, rubbing his crippled right leg, " I was caught by a fragment after one had shattered five paces from my position, the piece that hit me thrice my weight in granite rock. It nearly turned my leg around completely, and shattered it in three places besides. I passed out from the shock quickly, no time for pain, just a horrid sense that something was very, very wrong with my leg as I tumbled sideways from the blow and into blackness. It was another minor miracle that something didn't kill me as I lay amongst the dead and wounded behind the main lines, things stalking out from behind and dragging corpses and the nearly dead back into the shadowy swamp to feast. That was how my service in the second war ended. I was found barely alive after the battle and given healing by a scrawny young priest who was disobeying orders regarding magical healing priorities and rank because it had been a brigade of dwarves had saved his family back on Lordaeron. They would've had to cut leg my off and Makers know what else if he hadn't done that, and as far as I was concerned he'd paid back his families debt because of it. It was a long trip home on the back of a pony for me and what lads had survived the fight, barely taking the time to rest and bandage wounds after the fight to once turn our eyes northwards towards Ironforge. "

" By the end of the trip I was able to hobble along fairly well, months of normal healing accomplished in a few short moments back in the swamp. It had occurred to me in my more self-pitying moments that if the priest had been more powerful in his art I would have been able to walk better afterwards, but again, I couldn't complain. I was returning to Matilda, after all, and I knew she'd take me back with a bum leg. Kneeling for the proposal might be a little tricky, but I was determined nonetheless to do it once I found her again. I had even gotten a ring, " Daghmor noted, turning the club over and showing Crys a simple steel band that had been woven into the leather at the base of the wooden implement like it could be used to hang the club from a hook. " Came from the ear of some big orc who wore it as an earring. The sneak tried to take my head from my shoulders when my back was turned during a night raid. I gutted him for that, and despite the chaos around me I still had the mentality to take it for such a purpose. "

" Kharanos was almost back on its feet when I rode through. The Thunderbrew Distillery had been used as a base of operations for the siege of Ironforge, so other than some general repairs and getting the orc stink out they were relatively untouched and opened for business weeks before I had arrived. That heartened me as I stopped to see if Matilda still worked there. It irked me to have to describe her as 'the maid with the big nose', but it was the simplest way in the minds of others to remember her. They said sure, she had moved up to her old place in the foothills and was waiting for some solider to return from the front, they said she'd been pining away for him the whole siege too. I tell you, lad, a dwarf can have a statue carved in his image, a hall or lager named after him, but to have that much impact on another person who was once a stranger, that is the sort of thing that can validate yer life. "

" I wasted no more time, barely taking the time to thank them before kicking my pony into a gallop, heading up to the hills. Enough blood-soaked miles and days had passed me by already. This was it. The poor little thing carrying me was huffing and sweating by the time we had crested the last hill, pushing her as I was. Then I stopped. There it was, the cottage I had remembered, the one I wished to return to all those lonely nights on the front. There was a hole in the north facing wall that had been patched with planks, but otherwise untouched. But there was something else. The door was partially opened, despite the chill, and only the tiniest bits of smoke rose from the chimney. I rode up, seeing it was dark inside, but not so dark as not to see the even darker stains on the floor. If I had a thousand words in dwarvish to describe the feeling that struck me right then, it wouldn't have been enough. I fairly fell out of the saddle, finding my hammer in my hand without even being aware that I wanted it, calling her name over and over even though I hadn't bidden my tongue to do it. I charged up as fast as my leg would let me, knocking aside the door and surveying the interior. "

Daghmor stopped there, the room silent except for the wood crackling in the fireplace. Crys was transfixed, barely breathing as he heard the story unfold, in the sort of naked detail that most only reserved for their own personal recollections of events. The rogue was lightly stroking the club in his hands now, almost affectionately, his eyes downcast, his lips lost in his beard. Drawing in a deep, shuddering breath Daghmor swiveled his head upwards, his eyes blinking rapidly as he did so.

" She was dead. Stone cold, undeniably, totally and completely dead. Face down in the middle of the cabin she was, the thick knife she used to saw pieces of cooked meat onto a platter for the two of us clutched in her hand, stained with blood too dark to come from any animal or dwarf. Her body was cut deep in many places, all over, like whoever had done this had kept cutting after she had fallen. Frozen, dried blood was everywhere, over everything. She had given them a hell of a fight, as I would have expected she would have. There were drag marks in the blood leading to the door, and a broken stone axe near the fireplace. Frostmane trolls never leave their dead. "

Dagh's face moved to back to look at the elf directly as he spoke now, his voice hoarse with raw emotion and anger, his eyes like black furnaces of rage reflecting the fireplace's light.

" All I wanted, all I ever wanted during those days and nights was to be with her again. I didn't want spoils, I didn't want medals, I didn't want praise. For me, it was if all of Dun Morogh had condensed into a single person, and it was her I was out there for. I gave up pints of blood, of tears, of sweat, and nearly the ability to walk for the war, but it was those bloody cowardly Frostmanes who probably hid during the entire occupation and crept out while attention was focused elsewhere who made it all for nothing. What's the point, lad?! " Daghmor fairly roared at him, the hand holding his stein trembling from the grip he had on it.

" What's the point of it all if you can't even protect the ones you love?! Of fighting and bleeding and dying when all it takes is some guard wanting to warm his feet for a few minutes more than check on that cabin up in the hills where the barmaid with the ugly nose lives? "

Crys'annadath had no answer, as there was none to give. A race that valued clan and family as much as dwarves did made the elf doubly surprised how focused Daghmor's affection had been. A war had been won, a land and its people saved, all was good for the whole, even if the individual had to suffer. The words that Daghmor and Stonesmite had exchanged at the smithy made sense now. Clan before the clansman. The many before the few. All the world in a single person. What followed that outburst and Daghmor draining the rest of his wine in one breath was a silence like that of a tomb, oppressive and dark. So now Crys knew exactly how deeply Daghmor's scars ran. There was more, though, the dwarf turning aside his grief with a tide of bitterness and pouring more alcohol for himself, continued to speak.

" I cried for hours. Terrible, body-wracking, pathetic sobs. I wasn't a man, a dwarf, a solider during those hours. I was emptied of all that and filled with tears instead. It was one of the purest yet unsettling times of my life. Then I stopped crying, I stopped writhing on the bloody floor. If the only thing I could give Matilda now was a proper burial, then that was what I was going to do. With the grim mind set of someone who's stared down a charging wall of orcs and had no where or way to run, I stared digging into the frozen ground with a spade with a broken handle I had found. It's hard work, digging frozen ground. I pulled and strained muscles, my hands bled, but I kept digging. I wrapped her body in a bed sheet, torn between wanting to see her face one last time and not wanting to remember her like this. I buried her in that shallow grave and covered her with soil and more tears, then with rocks I gathered from the surrounding area and even from the crumbling wall of the cabin. I coaxed a fire out from some of the firewood she had along one side, and after getting a flame going, piled more wood inside the cottage. It was filled with flames only minutes later, the fire burning clean the blood, the tiny theater of both her death and life, and sending my future with her miles into the sky on a road of smoke. "

" It was dark when I, bone-weary, shivering and raw from the wind, stumbled into the Thunderbrew distillery. I fell into a chair by the door, and began drinking like I wanted it to kill me. There were whispers all around me, about me, but I heard none of them. After that, I was too rip-roaringly drunk on ale and whiskey to care even if I did hear. There was one point though, where the conversation between a soldier and one of the regular barmaids drifted to my ears.

' Aw come on, lassy, spend some time with me. '

' Nay, I've got too much to do. One of our workers didn't show and we have to pull double duties tonight. The one with the ugly nose who thinks that soldier will still come back for her. '

Laughter followed.

' Aye, I remember that one. I'd fight my way though a slew of orcs just to get clear of that snout, ' the dwarf laughed, one echoed by his fellows. "

" The next thing I remember I was lying face up in a prison cell, my entire body aching and no idea how I got there. When a bunch of military officers and city guards finally came to talk to me, I found out I had beaten the soldier half to death with my bare hands, and it had taken five of his friends and the bartender to pull me off of him. Even considering I was drunk there would be fines to pay and restitution made to the soldier's clan. There would also be the matter of a formal apology. I spat at their feet and fell back into unconsciousness. The following times were much the same, eventually my commanding officer coming in and telling me about even though I had lost someone dear to me—they had found out about Matilda by this time—that I was disgracing myself, my military career and my clan with my actions. ' It was time you started acting like a part of the dwarven nation again and not as a lost puppy whining for its mammy' they had said to me. That's when I punched him. A good solid hook across the side of the face and nose, sending him back off his chair and getting me beaten down and clapped in irons before he could even pick himself back up. "

" Not much to tell about the days after that. I had some family visit, though most of what they said was that I should still try to plead for leniency and save myself some grief for when the tribunal finally decided my fate. I looked between the words they were saying and I saw they wanted to spare their clan some staining on their reputation too. My pappy wasn't so kind about it.

' Think of your dear mammy,' he said to me the night before the tribunal. ' Not dead two years and already restless in her grave because her son is going to trial because of his over-weaning emotions. Think of her and any of the rest of us you still care about when you stand there before the elders tomorrow. ' "

Daghmor shrugged. " So I thought of my mammy when I stood there under the eyes of dozens of dwarves, of the solider I had beaten, my pappy, brothers, sisters, cousins, uncles, the judges. I said I was sorry I had acted the way I did, but I never said I wouldn't have done it over again if I had the chance. Considering my injury, my extended service away from home, and the death of Matilda, they were lenient. Two years in prison, a fine drawn from my family's holdings equal to five percent its total value, and a black mark on my name.

' I would like to address the court, ' I had said after the sentence had been handed down. The murmurings usually following a judgment quieting down rapidly. My family tensed up, wondering what fool thing I would say next and how much it was going to cost them.

' If it pleases the elders, I would like to serve my sentence another way. Take the fines from my holding in the clan, take all of it. Give me the clothes on my back, a sturdy weapon, and enough food for a ten-day. Give me this and I won't approach within sight of the watch fires of Ironforge for fifty seasons, may you strike me down dead on the spot if you see me doing otherwise. ' "

" Self-imposed exile, " Crys said quietly, still finding himself amazed by the amount of individualism and passion the dwarf sitting across from his had displayed. Daghmor just nodded before continuing.

" Aye. The court room erupted into loud debate, but I heard none of it, head bowed and twirling the steel ring they had let me keep in my fingers. After much discussing and hammering of gavels on stone tables it was decided. I had shown that I was remorseful for my actions by giving up my stake in my clan and leaving the halls of my home for a full fifty years. The Darkdelve name would bear no mark on it, and if I returned after those fifty years, I would be welcomed back as if I were a new dwarf. Frankly, I think they were just glad to be rid of me, and thought that my self-destructive tendencies would kill me long before fifty winters had passed. But whatever. I was free of them, free to do what I wanted. I had a pair of guards escort me all the way to Dun Modr, camping in the shadow of the Thandol Span. It was there, sharing my last meal with dwarves from the halls of Ironforge that I had spotted the stick. They had grabbed it and tossed it into the flames and I just as quickly snatched it out, looking at it in a way that must have made my two companions believe I was crazier than they already thought me to be. I traded in the hammer I had been given for some extra coins from one of the guards and set out, not looking back once. "

" In retrospect, lad, " the black-bearded dwarf said, shaking his head sadly, " fifty years sounds like a fine and dramatic amount when speaking from your heart, but entirely too long for someone with any sort of sense in his head. I miss my pappy, my brothers, I miss watching my nephews growing up, I miss the sounds of a hundred hammers working at once in the Great Forge. But here I am by my own choices, be they good or ill. I wandered for years in Lordaeron, doing whatever I could to earn my keep, then all that trouble with the Scourge started up, and I was sort of swept along with the tide. I ended up further away than I'd ever been from my home and with no way as of yet to get back across the ocean even if I could see my family again. And now I'm pouring my heart out to an elf of all people, getting all drunk and sentimental in his tower. A fine end to the tale, " Daghmor said finally, raising his mug in a mock salute and drinking a few long swallows.

" To those that we leave behind, " Crys raising his own glass to return the gesture.

" And to those who do the leaving, " the dwarf added, taking another drink as Crys did.


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

A long quiet interlude stretched out before the two drinking companions, each sedated by the gravity of the tale that had just been uttered, by a strange mixture of new-found closeness and fresh awkwardness.

" S'tell me lad, " Daghmor slurred, getting tired and nearly drunk enough to pass out besides. " You're a wizard, one of the most powerful ones I've ever encountered, seeing as I've not personally met your golden-haired fiancée yet, " the dwarf snickering at his own joke. " S'tell me, why does a wizard who would give up almost anything in this world before he would surrender the ability to work his craft, why does he get drunk and tear up all his books, crush his scrolls, only to lovingly restore and repair them in the morning? Yer methodical even when you drink, you only attack your library, not your furniture, your clothes, nothing else but the books. I've noticed lad, " the dwarf nodded, pointing at Crys, " even if you didn't want me too. I've been to plenty of drunks places and it's the thing that turns them to drink that earns their wrath. "

So there it was. The question that Sarah must have asked herself many a time before, but was too timid and tactful to verbalize it. Realistically, only she and Daghmor would be the ones to know about his destructive rampages, rarely if ever entertaining guests of any sort in his chambers.

" A pain for a pain then is it, Dagh? " Crys sighed. " Fair enough, and a simple enough answer too, I think. Magic is the source of all my woes, but if I surrendered its use, I'd wouldn't have the strength to carry on living. Each and every day I have a dagger of cold emptiness stabbing me in the gut, reminding me that the Sunwell is gone forever, robbing me and every other Quel'dorei of the simple and glorious feeling of wholeness we once experienced. It's like having a second stomach that will only recognize one kind of food, and none of us can ever dine on that particular food again, leaving us feeling forever empty. I can stave it off for a bit, sure, a little shot of my own magical energy to dull it, but it always returns, always. I truly pity those elves whom have no training in the arcane arts. They would have no way of holding off the addiction except by being near a moonwell, and our cousins don't take too kindly to us being near those. "

" I drink because of what I lost back on Lordaeron. My family, my home, the Sunwell, a future amongst my people. But when I strip away all the layers with booze, I get to the core of the matter. It is the study of magic that did all that. Directly, indirectly, intentionally, accidentally, the mere existence of people like me has made it all possible. The working of magic draws the Burning Legion to us, as they hunger for it too. Do we stop working arcane magic? No, we can use it to defend ourselves against them, we tell ourselves. We can gird ourselves against the seductive impulses, we are wizards after all. We can command the elements to do our bidding, overcome the otherwise impossible, do things that can only be imagined by any other beings. We won't give that up, even if it brings the Legion back to Azeroth a hundred times. "

" Kel'thuzad, the one responsible to sowing the Plague in Lordaeron's northern reaches, the one who founded the Cult of the Damned, the one whose resurrection destroyed the blessed Sunwell, he was one of us. He was from Dalaran, he studied there, he nurtured his art there. But there are no personality requirements to be a mage. No tests of suitability. If he is crafty and subtle along the way, the most megalomaniacal despot can excel in the arts, his sense of self-worth and why he should treat 'lesser' beings with contempt growing stronger, along with his desire to rule over them. Kel'thuzad wanted power, just like every wizard does, but he was willing to do anything to get it. The Light only knows what he and Arthas are doing over there now, being on another continent only delays its affect on us. "

" So, in short, every arcane spellcaster on the planet is only slightly less guilty of the endless pageantry of death and war than those who actually set the events in motion. From our ranks have risen the most foul and diabolical beings the world has ever seen, but we still won't give up our magic. We continue to provide a breeding ground for the next savage tyrant, the next would-be world ruler, even researching more and more powerful spells for the next one to learn and unleash on the weak and defenseless. In my sober moments I work my craft, using it to realize my desires and get me through another day. At night in my drunken moments, I lash out against the thing that is a part of me, that is responsible for both my misery and the suffering of untold thousands world-wide. That war you fought in, Dagh, the one that took you away from Matilda? A wizard, an impossibly powerful one, but a wizard nonetheless, brought the Horde to Azeroth. He died for his role in it all, but that one death cannot undo the scores dead as a result of his actions. Sometime in the future, it'll happen again. One year, ten years, a hundred years, it will all happen again. It might be someone I know. It might be me. People with more sterling character than I have succumbed, so sit and share a drink with the elf who might snap one day and enslave or kill thousands with his actions. We are but weak mortals wielding the power of gods, and would rather die than give it up, after all. "

Crys spread his lips in a grim smile and raised his glass in a jaunty salute, downing the port and suddenly rising and whipping the glass into the fire, causing it to shatter and ripping open the elf's shoulder wound at the same time. Grimacing in pain Crys fell back down into his chair, grasping his shoulder and breathing deeply through his nostrils, fuming at the stupidity of it all. Daghmor looked introspective after the elf's tirade, peering at what wine had left in the stein like a seer scrying in a bowl.

" Now, lad, answer me this, if you can, " the dwarf said finally, not looking up from his stein. " Say there was a swordsmith living in a small village. Say all he was really good at was crafting swords. It was his livelihood, his trade, it put bread on his family's table and clothes on their backs. Swords cannot be used for cutting wood, cannot be used to hunt animals, they serve only one purpose; conflict, brutal, deadly conflict. Knowing full well what his blades can and will be used for, the swordsmith is at a loss as what to do. He can very well stop making swords, but then both he and his family suffer from the loss of income, and all for the sake of his conscience. If he continues making swords, they prosper, even though his blades could be used for evil purposes by evil men. So say that the swordsmith decides to keep making swords, willing to put up with imagined wrong-doings than watching his family suffer…"

" There was a question here…? ' Crys asked, getting impatient.

" Aye lad, " Daghmor replied nodding and looking at the elf across from him. " Say every sword that the swordsmith had ever made were wielded by a band of robbers, who descended on the swordsmith's village, killing everyone; the swordsmith, his family, everyone. Who is to blame for that tragedy? "

Crys, still gritting his teeth against the pulsing pain in his re-opened wound, thought about the story, turning it around in his mind. A few times he opened his mouth to speak a reply, but the story was only simple in its form. Who was to blame? The swordsmith for making the blades? The robbers? The swordsmith's master for teaching him how to make them in the first place? Finally, the wizard said; " The robbers, I suppose. They chose to kill people, and whether they had swords from that particular swordsmith or not wouldn't have changed the fact they would have killed everyone. "

Daghmor nodded.

" A sword is just a thing, lad. It's how it is used that determines good or evil. Magic is a tool of you wizards too, and it's the desires and personality of the spellcaster that makes them a hero or an oppressor. Even if magic is fancier and can kill more people, a sword to an unarmed and unarmored man can be as deadly and powerful as a lightning bolt from the sky. So don't blame yerself for making monsters. They were monsters already, and magic just happens to be their tool of choice. Kel-whatever would have had to train himself to be a warrior instead of a wizard to get his power, and would have put people to the sword rather than spreading a plague around. "

Crys found himself agreeing with the rogue initially, but as he thought more about it, the example was a bit of an over-simplification, and he said as much.

" Magic wields the user as much as the user wields it, though. No matter how close a bond a warrior can develop with a favorite blade, you simply cannot have blades running through your body, nor have that sword be a part of you. Magic changes the way a person thinks, often making him callous and lazy, seeing how he's figured out what only a precious few have been able to, and how many things magic can do to make his life easier. I could instantly teleport to Jaina's council chambers right now if I wanted to and wasn't so drunk. Why walk? Why ride a horse? I have spells to open doors, sweep dust, mend clothing, light candles…everything but chew food for me it seems some days. I could choose not to move from this chair and have almost everything needed to continue existing. Magic in the beginning is much like swordsmanship…both require hours of dedication and practice. The difference, however, comes later on, when both the mage and the swordsman become more experienced. The warrior has to keep exercising, keep training to keep himself at his current skill level, and even then advancing age will make him have to work ever harder to maintain his skill. "

" Magic is different. Once a mage becomes accomplished, while there is an intense drive to gain more and more power, a spellcaster could remain at his current power and never fall back, provided his mind does not fail him. He has reached a plateau, and with that power at his command, he becomes decadent and slothful. Petty concerns are beneath him now, when, with a flick of his wrist, he could summon a banquet for his table, or hot water for a bath, or some foul demon to kill an intruder. All the honest, physical limitations have been taken away, and the caster slips further towards that need for instant gratification expressed by children. Knowing your way around a sword can make a man confident, even cocky, but magic creates megalomaniacs, would-be gods. A sword can be made to kill people, kill people well, even, but when you design a spell that sucks all the moisture out of every living thing within a twenty pace area, you damn well know what the effects are going to be, and what sort of person will get a lot of use out of such a spell. "

" What if, " Crys continued, holding a finger up to mark the point, " what if not only would there be fewer swords in the world if the swordsmith had given up his trade, but if he gave it up, so would everybody else, and there would be no more swords in the world at all. What if the sword was the reason for all the war and chaos that kept cropping up? Would it not make moral sense for all swordsmiths to give up their trade, if I meant that there would be no more war? "

Daghmor shrugged at this. " Just like magic, even if there were indisputable facts to show that the manufacture of swords was linked to wars, there would be many dwarves who will still not believe it, or at best, publicly retire, but secretly make swords just because it is forbidden to do so. It would be those hidden swordsmiths who would then wield a disproportionate amount of power, should their works ever reach the light of day again, which they most certainly would, and the whole thing would start over again. As I said before, the ranks of wizards haven't been the sole supplier of miscreants to the world, just the supplier of the flashier and more memorable ones. Magic, like the knowledge of sword making and the metals they are made of, is a part of this world, a part we will never be able to banish, no matter how many suffer and die. If buying the last cut of beef from a butcher means that a man, angry at this, goes home and beats his wife and give no supper to his children, it's not your fault, even though you were indirectly responsible. Not even the titans, for all their power and knowledge, could predict every little thing that was going to happen because of what they had done in forming Azeroth. They just did as they must do, and moved on. You can't blame yourself for anything but what you directly have done, and can only foresee the results of your action within your lifetime. Anything else is pointless paranoia and anxiety. "

" As wizards, though, " Crys countered, " we have a long history of the power-hungry and mad. We have a doubly rigid obligation to seek out corruption amongst our peers and keep ourselves from becoming seduced by the magic. Opening or working on a particular spell or school of magic, such as necromancy, will almost ensure the revolutionary and horrid genesis of some new spell or curse sooner rather than later. If we research and study with no concern for future generations, it may evolve too rapidly, out-stripping effective counter-measures. We must look beyond our own lives, to the lives of our apprentice's apprentices. This is why studies in necromancy were forbidden at places like Dalaran, yet were solely researched in some dark laboratory by a group of rebel wizards. One side studies like mad because they know the other side is trying to counter them, and vice versa. The study of magic is self-perpetuating, snowballing until we will have the kind of sorcery that can devastate half the planet with a single spell. I will have been a part of it, the wizards of the future taking what they want from the theories of the past without regard for its original intentions, and making new ways to enslave, kill, or inflict pain. "

The dwarf sighed, wondering if the elf was being pig-headed just because he was trying to prove his point, or simply didn't want to admit he was wrong. " Don't blame the raindrop for the flood, lad, blame the storm. Hundreds of years ago, if all the most powerful mage could do is light a fire under someone's arse, then he was feared, and all would shake their fingers at what would come next. Then it was several people's arses, then a home's, then a village's, then a town's, and so on. All we can hope is to leave the world in the care of our children and students, and trust that we taught them well enough not to go and do something fool enough as blow it up. Now, that's quite enough of all this chatter. Ethical debates have their time and place, and two ex-soldiers nearly passed out from drink in the middle of the evening is not either of those. "

Crys nodded to concede the point, though not entirely convinced about him being blameless in all of the world's current woes. It was sort of an ethical run-around that did nothing but satisfy the need to debate it, the march of magic continuing on in the meantime. Daghmor yawned deeply, a gaping hole of a mouth surrounded by curly facial hair, forcing Crys to barely stifle one of his own. He would check his wound again and then retire to his bed, the chair the dwarf was already dozing in comfortable enough for him to remain there for the whole night. Crys idly wondered, as he walked stiffly towards the green stained door of his bedchamber, if Dagh was able to visit Matilda in his dreams, playing out all the avenues of a potential life with her if only for a few hours a night and with only the barest of remembrances of them in the morning. His memories were all he had left of her, and were doubtlessly one of his most treasured possessions. The warmage knew they were all he had left of his sister, but had been unable to even dream about finding her again, much less trying to fashion some sort of normal life with her out of the ruins of their homeland. Some things, it seemed, were beyond even the power of dreams.

" _If you see your friend turn sick and grey,_

_While you're both out playing in the hay._

_Won't hide, don't stay,_

_Hold your mouth and run away… "_

Leetha hummed the children's rhyme about the plague she remembered hearing over in Lordaeron as she drifted towards her target, her incorporeal body slipping through stone, wood and metal with equal ease as she traveled. There was no barrier short of magic or powerful holy sigils that could prevent her passage, and Greymere Tower was one such place. She would not be able to dispatch the dwarf and the elf that Suul wanted dead in her current form, so she would have to make a stop first. The banshee paused, drifting up to street level to check her direction, only the top half of her head visible to any who might have been awake as such an early hour and spotted her. She was on course and mere blocks away, traveling in a direct line from her point of origin making her progress unmatched by any fleshy, living creature. Leetha drifted through root cellars and basements, sensing the sleeping humans above her stir and twist around in their beds, disturbed by her unearthly presence. She wanted to slip up through the floor boards and make a husband forget where he had met his wife, or a child forget the soothing murmurs her mother used to sing to her when she was ill. Nothing big, just a tiny bit of happiness lost to the void forever, but she could not. She would have to content herself with her target and the two she was going to kill. Quality, not quantity. The depth of suffering was the key, not the amount.

The undead elf slipped noiselessly through the wooden planks of the floor, peering around the darkened interior of the house the maid named Sarah lived in, according to Dracol's minions. She made too little money to afford an individual apartment so she lived with three other women who also worked menial jobs in Theramore. Leetha would have to be careful and quiet, or else the screams might draw too much attention to her presence, something, if the rest of her mission were to succeed she would have to make sure didn't happen. The women in the small building sandwiched between two shops stirred as the banshee raised herself up fully above the floor, the trailing bits of her tattered dress brushing the top of the rough wooden planks. The maid she sought had coppery hair and freckles, the undead elf peering at the four sleeping forms to better get a look at their features. There she was, her back to the spectral woman and completely oblivious to the peril she was in. Excellent.

Leetha moved her long fingers over the head of the sleeping maid, rolling her eyes back into her head as she drifted there motionless except for the involuntary rippling of her ethereal garments. Leetha chuckled verbally as she scoured the maid's mind, her memories, her fears. There was much to work with here; her father a drunk, her mother a silent, down-trodden house wife, a brother who volunteered for the army far too young and came back dead. There were happy moments as well, as Leetha had found in even the most miserable of lives led, but these were trifling things, and could easily be destroyed. Leetha noted too, this maid had no small crush on the elven wizard who lived alone in his chambers at the top of an unpleasant tower, torn apart by grief over what he had lost in the old world and drinking himself into an early grave, just like her father had. How sweet that she wanted to show him kindness and patience, so that she might turn him away from that same inglorious fate. That is why she went to his tower, how she knew how to bypass the door's defenses and gain access to the elf's chambers while he still slept, surrounded by empty bottles and torn spell books.

The maid stirred from the psychic intrusion, her face screwed up in a grimace and a sheen of sweat covering it. That was enough of the scouting mission, time for the main assault. Leetha's spectral hands drifted down until they almost locked Sarah's face in a cage of fingers and black nails, the banshee lowering her face so that it was parallel to the maids. After a few more brief moments of feverish grunts and fingers wringing the bed sheets Sarah awoke, looking into the unearthly, cold blue eyes of a banshee who grinned wickedly at her. Before the impetus of a scream could even be mustered by her mind Leetha's fingers slipped inside her skull, touching on various points within, freezing her mouth in a silent wail, the human's eyes wide with fear and confusion. Leetha began her work, shifting her fingers like a potter working wet clay, moving this around, destroying that. Gone were the maid's memories of sunny summer afternoons with her friends underneath the covered bridge spanning then Silverstream River in Elwynn forest. Gone were the oat cakes her mother baked on her good days, when her father was actually working and they felt like a family again. The human choked, a dry, gagging noise and tears began to stream from the corners of her eyes, but there was no force she could muster that could break the banshee's terrible hold on her mind.

Rather than simply fearing her father and listening to him hit her mother, Leetha made it so that he had struck her as well during his drunken rages. The elf in the tower was just using her, and would die as broken and alone as her father had before the plague struck. Her brother had joined the army after she suggested it to him, and returned to the home a bloody ruin mere weeks later. The incorporeal elf had to stifle a peal of dark laughter as she worked, settling instead on a perverse chuckle as she continued to mold the maid's mind so it would become a suitable place for the banshee to reside in for the next few hours. Some of the other in the room began to stir. It was time. Opening her mouth impossibly wide the banshee's mouth and eyes began to emit beams of ghostly energy which flowed into the maid's own twisted mask of a face. A few horrible moments passed and Leetha literally began to pour into the maid via those three points, every last bit of her disappearing into her new living host.

One of the other woman in the room suddenly sat bolt upright in her cot, clutching the night robe she wore to her bosom in a gesture of abject terror. Her eyes scanned the room, trying to locate the source of her terror, but the only thing that seemed out of place in the quiet room was Sarah trashing around in bed, whimpering and clutching at nothing. Tossing the sheets aside the woman raced over to Sarah's beside, grabbing a hold of one of the maid's flailing arms and holding it tightly.

" Sarah! Sarah, wake up! "

The woman's pleas roused the others, who looked from their beds at the scene before them. Sarah continued to flail and then with a final, jerking convulsion, laid very still, as if dead. The remaining three looked at each other nervously, finally one asking; " Is she dead? "

The one holding her limp hand checked for a pulse, and found one, weak, but present.

" No, I think she had some terrible nightmare and it scared her something awful. Sarah, can you hear me? "

The maid known as Sarah slowly opened her eyes, the glistening trails of tears still fresh on her cheeks. Her green eyes swiveled calmly, almost eerily so until they met the woman's who knelt beside her bed, still remaining silent. At long last she spoke, her voice sounding hoarse and deep as if she had a congestion in her chest.

" I'm fine, just a little nightmare is all. You should get some more sleep, you'll need it for the day's work. "

The other three just exchanged looks before uneasily slipping back into their beds.

" Your sure your alright? " one of them asked her, looking over to their friend who hadn't moved or even seemed to blink.

" Yes, never better. Don't let a silly woman's night terrors make you worry too much. I'm fine. "

Placated enough, the others settled back down, and within fifteen or so minutes were sleeping once again. Sarah, or the woman who had once been Sarah, slipped noiselessly from her bed, nearly stumbling as she rose to her feet. Cursing under her breath in a language she shouldn't have known she tested her feet again, and, once satisfied she could walk without tripping, began to get dressed. Inside, Leetha fumed and hissed at the unpleasant feeling of warm flesh once again housing her mind and spirit, the sluggish movements, the hundred little irritations, itches and discomforts of skin. Getting dressed was an awkward affair, but surmounted by persistence. Soon, Sarah was ready to make her way out onto the early morning streets, dressed in her best skirt, something that Leetha took pride in making her wear to the scene of a double murder and her suicide. A small paring knife, its iron edge dulled but still function was slipped under her waistband, and the rest would be based around Leetha's own powers and cunning. Still, as Sarah rummaged around and pulled a small pouch of her life's saving out of a cupboard and tucked it away too, she should stop by an apothecary's on her way to the tower and pick up some poison for the rats around the bakery in which she worked, a mage as skilled as this elf appeared to be should be dealt with first and quickly, the only real threat to her. The dwarf she would be able to take a little more time with.

After checking her hair in a small mirror beside the door in a annoying fit of habit the maid known as Sarah took one last look around the room, wishing she could spend more time educating her friends on the true meaning of suffering, but there was a job to be done, and done quickly. Sarah closed the door behind her and began to walk with small, measured paces, gradually warming to the activity and taking a more relaxed stride. Her stomach rumbled with hunger and her left shoe was chafing her big toe something fierce because of the way she had jammed her foot into it getting dressed, but she wouldn't have to worry about such trivialities for much longer. A short stop for some powdered Banenettle leaves at the apothecaries and she was only a brief walk and a magic command word away from achieving her goals. A smile tugged at the corners of Sarah's pale rose lips, though the thought of ending three lives here and then eventually traveling back to Lordaeron to hunt down the rest of her living kin hiding in Silvermoon had never previously elicited such a happy reaction.

" Soon, Mal'ganis, " Suul'Dracol murmured to himself, as he often did on this particular subject. " Soon I will be able to pursue my true quarry; plan and plot and scheme to bring about the destruction of that pathetic waste of skin that parades around Northrend like a burgeoning god. Soon… " the dreadlord sighed, tilting his head back and remembering the early days of the war, of the Scourge when they were a loyal dog at the heel of the Burning Legion, when everything seemed to be going so perfectly.

Those were the days of victory on top of victory, of their best laid plans finding success beyond comparison as the humans fled and faltered under their advance. It was in those days that Suul worked alongside Mal'ganis, the younger Nathrezim fearing the elder greatly, as close to admiration that their race born of the chaotic realm of the Nether came to. Mal'ganis tricked and taunted and teased the human paladin Arthas, leading to greater and greater acts of evil in his holy crusade to purge his father's lands of the unclean. It was masterful, it was brilliant, and it was a set-up. When the young knight was at his worst, choosing to butcher his own people rather than see them turn to the Scourge, they handed Mal'ganis to him in a silver platter, letting the tortured ex-paladin slay the gaping dreadlord as some sort of prize. No one of Mal'ganis's stature should ever perish to a mortal's blade, much less because he had been betrayed by his own faction.

That pointless, maddening event left a big scar on the younger Nathrezim, who was used to treachery and deceit, but if one in the most important and useful arm of the Legion could be tossed carelessly away like a bone to a dog, then what was the point of doing your best to aid them? No dreadlord would harm another, of all things that much at least was held sacred amongst their own kind, but it was the Legion itself, under the supposed masterful leadership of Kil'jaeden and Archimonde, that had done this. From that moment onward Suul had wormed his way through the ranks, seeking for a commission that would bring him closer to working towards the downfall of the now rogue death knight turned demi-god. The Shadow Council had seen his desires and promised that he would be sent to Northrend as part of a scouting force if he first struck a major blow against the humans on Kalimdor, and so he was here. Forced to work with limited resources and a tight time-table, Suul had nonetheless made great strides towards achieving his goals, and now stood on the very crux of defeat or victory. He would not fail. He would lead the eventual charge against the Lich King, even if it took decades of planning to do so, and Mal'ganis's death would be avenged when the being who had been Arthas was dead and scattered across the glacier. It would happen, and no elf, no dwarf, no being living, dead, or extra-dimensional would stop him.


	15. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

The skies were the milky grey of corpse flesh when Sarah, puffing and cursing to herself, began to ascend the long spiral staircase up to her target's room…all the way at the top of the tower. Breathing, heart beats, sweat, clothes clinging uncomfortably to your back like some sort of limp, damp lover spooning you. Sarah hated it all, hated it and would make sure that she took all of her frustrations out on the room's occupants before she flung her uncomfortable, useless body off the side of the tower, her true and proper body slipping past the unyielding cobblestones as the flesh one smashed mercilessly against them. As she walked she ran through her mind the sequence of tasks before her once she reached the room, having finally reached a satisfactory plan of attack. Poison the mage with the Banenettle leaves, curse the dwarf with magicks that would dim his sight and soften him up with some unholy screams. Then, when they were both near death, go to work on their minds, taking away every last good thought either of them had before finally letting their tortured souls slip into death. It was simple, it was elegant, it would work.

Pausing to catch her breath Sarah froze as a nearby door opened and disgorged a heavily robed figure. Sometimes a magically sensitive person could sense her presence lurking around in a flesh body, something that would be disastrous to her plans right now. Leetha tried to keep her outward expression calm as the robed man closed the door behind him and, noticing her for the first time, started a bit at her presence. " You're here rather early. What brings you to Greymere Tower at such a time of the day? " the man asked searchingly, slipping his hood back to reveal a middle-aged wizard with chestnut hair and more than a few wrinkles at the corners of his eyes from countless hours of peering at text and precise measurements.

" The…usual. Waking Master Skychaser from his drunken slumber, " Sarah replied awkwardly, gesturing her head up the stairs. The robed man looked in the direction of the stairs, shaking his head.

" I know of him. Such talent wasted on a broken man. The Sorcerous Sight is not a gift often seen among his kind, and now it's the only thing keeping him useful to the Alliance anymore, " the mage snorted, the contempt, and perhaps a touch of jealousy, clear in his voice.

Sarah panicked again. The Sorcerous Sight? Suul had said nothing of such an ability, and Leetha, thinking back to her days in Silvermoon, knew the term had been tossed around when the discussion of mages arose. Did it allow him to see things others would miss? Would it allow him to see her true form?

" Well, you look as if you want to be on your way. Don't wander while here, there's dangerous experiments afoot at all hours of the day, " he robed wizard said finally, nodding in farewell to her and making his way down the staircase.

Sarah was too shaken to form even a simple farewell of her own, her mind racing with new contingents and doubts. She continued her ascent slowly, her expression deeply concerned. Suul'Dracol would not take kindly too her failing, and this body was the best possible one to get into the mage's room without suspicion. After some thought Sarah then steeled herself, resolute in her mission. She would proceed with what she planned already. If she operated fast enough, she could poison the mage, still bleary-eyed from being awoken and hung-over, before he could perceive her true nature and destroy her physical shell. Everything else would fall into place after that.

She was here. From this vantage point Sarah could see most of Theramore, still sleeping beneath a grey sky, looking so peaceful. Sarah used to love the view that was afforded from the top of the tower, now she just thought that it would be a nice place to watch the city tear itself apart once Suul had completed his ritual and turned everyone in the city into a berserking lunatic. They could watch it together, she thought, toasting the success of his mission while drinking in the wails of anguish and suffering from below. The thought calmed her dark soul somewhat, letting her concentrate on what to do next. Sarah approached the door, looking at the golden handle, the memories of her doing this time- and-time again flooding to the fore. Her foot, the one that pained her before, stamped the ground thrice, and she spoke the necessary word; " Beslak. "

The handle crackled with blue lightning, then ceased. Sarah gasped the handle and pushed inwards, the magic making the metal warm to her touch. Inside, it was still very much dark, the shuttered windows keeping it gloomy, something that Sarah wouldn't have minded if she did not possess shins to slam into unseen furnishings. Picking her way carefully through the darkness she approached the windows, peering around as she carefully drew the curtains apart. There was a light snoring coming from one of the high-backed chairs in front of the glowing hearth, the pitch far too deep for an elf's voice. The dwarf slept here then, the elven wizard in the small bedchamber to her left, behind the closed door. With some effort she swung one of the shutters open, just enough to allow her room to work. The dwarf snorted and shifted around in his comfortable seat, but otherwise did not stir from the noise or light. Nodding in satisfaction to herself Sarah crept over to the array of copper goblets and selected one, pouring water into it from the enchanted pitcher. Once it was full enough Sarah fished around for the packet she had bought at the apothecaries with the money she was saving for a new formal dress, drawing out the powered Banenettle and, tearing open a corner, poured a liberal amount into the water. As an after-thought, Sarah then sprinkled some dried mint leaves in the concoction, hoping that they would cover up the musty smell long enough for the mage to swallow it down.

Taking the lethal brew with her she slipped over to the green bedroom door, peering back at the slumbering dwarf. The tapestry of Silvermoon in its glory caught her eye, causing a stirring of conflicting emotions in her bleak heart. It was in the tapestry and it likely never would be again, yet at the same time those elegant spires twisted and burnt by the meat wagon's projectiles of burning effluence, the forested land corrupted and dying from the carpet of Blight laid down during Arthas's advance on the Sunwell, comforted her rather than saddened her. So much death, so many painful memories. Remembering herself, Sarah opened the door a crack and peered inside. There was steady breathing coming from within the room, faint but detectable. He was still sleeping as well. Opening the door fully the maid walked in, holding the cup possessively before her. This was it.

The mage stirred at her approached, obviously not in a deep a slumber as the dwarf, or perhaps just possessing sharper senses. His eyes fluttered open and he drew in a deep, cleansing breath as he awoke, twisting a bit as he muscles demanded to be stretched. The wizard winced as he did this, however, his left hand going to his right shoulder and the bandages there, a rust brown patch of dried blood just visible against the white linen in the dim room.

" Oh, Sarah. I didn't hear you enter, " he said, sitting up slightly in his bed peering at her through sleep-blurred eyes. Sarah gritted her teeth, forcing herself to remain calm.

" I brought you this, " the maid greeted in a voice she hoped was cheerful, offering the water laced with dried green leaves.

" Oh, no, your services won't be necessary this morning, Sarah, sorry to have made you come up all those damnable stairs to hear that. "

Sarah frowned, unmoving.

" Well, sire, at least take a drink to cleanse your mouth. Then at least I have done some good here for all my travels. "

Crys regarded the human maid for a moment, gingerly rotating his right shoulder. Damn he was stiff this morning, and his previous meal pickled with booze did leave a most unappealing taste in his mouth.

" Did you wake Dagh, the dwarf, " Crys asked, correcting himself as he sipped the drink. Sarah fairly beamed at him, a wide grin on her face.

" No, though I suspect he will be awake very soon, " she grinned. Raising an eyebrow at her leer Crys took in a large portion of the water swishing it around in his mouth. There was something different about it this morning, even the bitter taste in his mouth couldn't over-power it. Once he had cleaned out the inside of his mouth he spit the water back into the cup, his lips curling up at the acrid aftertaste. Handing the goblet back to her Sarah seemed to simply drop the cup onto the floor, it landing with a high-pitched metallic ring and a splash of water while she immediately turned to her left and walked out of the room. Crys scowled, the whole sequence of events seeming askew to him, especially Sarah's odd behavior. Reaching down to retrieve the cup the sour taste in his mouth began to tingle, then burn. Gritting his teeth against this new discomfort Crys scooped up the goblet, noticing that there were far more mint leaves in the water than usual…and the water didn't taste like it had nearly that many added…something was terribly wrong. Crys struggled to his feet, his head suddenly swimming, his limbs trembling as the fire in his mouth continued to burn. Sarah. How could she? No one could pay her enough to kill someone, she wasn't that kind of person, but the evidence was currently spilled all over his floor and acidly searing the inside of his mouth.

As the trembling elf shuffled his way to the room's door he heard Daghmor suddenly cry out in alarm, his voice still slurred from sleep.

" Crys! Lad! There's foul magic afoot! Someone's half-blinded me, rouse yourself! " the dwarf bellowed, followed closely by the sound of furniture being moved forcibly and an rap of wood on wood. Magic? Had Sarah let others in with her? Assassins? The poisoned warmage strained to hear, but he could only hear Daghmor's cursing and stumbling, and Sarah's chilling laughter. Retching, the wizard collapsed to his hands and knees, feeling the toxins work its way through his body.

Sarah, by contrast, was having a great time. Her plan succeeded despite possible obstacles; the wizard drew closer to death with each passing moment and the dwarf was currently striking at shadows and chairs, her powerful curse distorting and bending the light entering his eyes. Now, to calm his movements by letting him bleed a bit, Sarah mentally noted to herself. The maid opened her mouth wide, her jaw popping and cheeks pulling taut as the muscles obeyed Leetha's commands. It didn't stop there, though. A searing, tearing pain originating at the corners of the woman's mouth proceeded the actual rending of the flesh, the long, jagged rip in her cheeks worming its way up to where her jawbone joined the rest of her skull; the banshee's absolute control over her puppet's body allowing her to bypass its normal limits. True, Leetha felt the pain as well, felt the warm, sticky blood course over the sides of her ruined lower face, but it would be a temporary thing. It was only with her jaw distended like this that she was able to unleash her devastating sonic attack, which she did with great relish.

Crystal stemware shattered as she howled, the tapestry on the wall rippling and tossing around as if a strong gust of wind had blown through the chamber. The concentrated aural power of the scream acted like invisible claws as they struck, tearing away leather and flesh from the dwarf's left shoulder and arm, blood spattering on the fireplace mantle behind him. The force of the attack also caused the disoriented rogue to stagger backwards, striking a book shelf with his back and sending some poorly positioned books tumbling to the ground. Sarah grinned as her tongue, like some fleshy worm investigating the bloody ruins of its home, swayed back and forth in sadistic pleasure. Two short shrieks and more flesh and leather parted, the dwarf collapsing to the floor, still doggedly gripping onto his wooden club, such a pitiful weapon against one such as her. The dwarf called out the elf's name again, trying to regain his feet, his bearded face a red mixture of anger and pain. That's when the burning shards of magic ripped through Sarah's right side, punching a coin-sized hole through her upper arm and sending more blood to the room's floor.

Crys could only keep retching and keep himself from falling prone, listening as an unearthly shriek he had heard only once before split the quiet morning air following by a choking gasp of pain from Daghmor. A banshee. He had fought her kind before, back on Lordaeron before the evacuation. They were always elves, their faces as cruel and cold as a murderer's knife, their horrid wailing could be heard for miles, sapping the courage of soldiers to fight such a thing. Their most horrifying ability, however, was to inhabit the bodies of anyone they choose, and infiltrate their enemies strongholds, sowing chaos with assassinations and sabotage before finally being struck down. Even then, without magic the banshee would simply escape by phasing through the ground, ready to strike another day. It also made it sickeningly clear why Sarah was doing this, because technically, she wasn't. The cult behind the murders had them watched, saw that Sarah could gain entry to the room, and possessed her. Another innocent dead. Focusing on not passing out the elf tried to think as the room spun and swam around him. For some reason the burning, dry feeling in his mouth seemed familiar, the fire creeping through is veins, the vomiting…Banenettle! It was Banenettle she had used!

Summoning up what flagging strength he had left the elf crawled over to the table where the mother-of-pearl pitcher sat, along with the copper cups and dried mint leaves. Trembling hands gripped the table's edge and the elf with painful slowness lifted himself to his feet. Behind him, there were two more short, quick screams and the found of something meaty hitting the floor. Dagh wouldn't last much longer, and neither would he if he didn't act fast. His hand grasped the pewter container with the dehydrated mint leaves in it with a desperate hold, dragging the metal container towards him and tipping its contents into his open mouth. Crys almost gagged on the dry contents, but forced himself to take as many as he could into his mouth, chewing clumsily. The cooling burn of the mint started to saturate his mouth, the sudden rush of eye-watering menthol burning away some of the poison's affects on his senses. Crys dropped the container to his feet as he swiveled around on the spot, still holding onto the table for support. He brought a spell to the front of his mind and focused on releasing the energies like he had countless times before. His fingertips glowed white for a moment before the arcane energy leapt off of them, forming into dagger-sized bolts which streaked noiselessly towards the possessed maid.

Sarah groaned in new pain and hissed in anger. She spun around to see the wizard still standing, bits of mint leaves plastered around his mouth and down the front of his tunic. He should be convulsing on the ground by now! She must not have used enough Banenettle, and of her two targets he was the only one who was able to deliver real damage to her. Leaving the dwarf behind her she stalked towards the mage, who had his hand still raised towards her and seemed to be concentrating on another spell. His lack of aim told the banshee he was still barely holding himself together, and would not be able to put up much physical resistance. Slipping a shield of invisible evil around herself Sarah's upper lips curled in a horrid, bloody grin as the elf's next spell, a rapid gust of fire, passed harmlessly across the surface of her barrier. Her kind was vulnerable to magic, but they had also found ways to counter it. A panicked look passed over the wizard's face as he realized that his one weapon was useless against her now, which rapidly shifted to revulsion as Sarah grabbed his head with claw-like fingers, holding him steady while boring holes into him with her gaze. A gurgling chuckle originated from the back of the maid's throat, her dangling jaw moving out of sync with her words as they came from the banshee's voice and not the maid's.

" Foolish man, you are dead already but are too bullheaded to admit it. Your dwarf friend will last a bit longer thanks to you, but it seems I must deal with your stubborn self first. Mustn't ruin the body too much before I am done with it, " she chided, pressing her fingers harder into his skull, eliciting a whine of pain from the mage as his toxin-weakened arms tried to pry them away from his head.

" Your physical anguish is only the appetizer, dear sweet countryman. Let's slip in a little deeper and see what you have rushing through your mind in your final moments of life. "

Spectral fingers extended out past Sarah's physical ones, boring into Crys's head like icy stilettos of pain.

" Ooh! Yes! So much suffering and self-loathing! Magnificent! " Leetha hissed, her grisly, bloody grin widening, bits of gore dripping off of her chin.

" A sister, your only relation left alive. What a pity it would be if you couldn't even remember her name, or what she looked like before you passed away. No final farewells and apologies about leaving her, just the knowledge that you will never see her face again, even in your last thoughts, " the banshee's laugh bubbling up once again from Sarah's blood-drenched throat.

"_Reconsider, at the very least. A day, no more. You'll see that…"_

"…_do you think that little of me now?"_

_He had looked up at her then, but her face, it was…indistinct. Fuzzy. She wore red, and was crying, but her face, it was gone, like a smudge on a glass pane. _

" _To remain behind…"_

" _Destroyed. Gone. Ravaged. Do they sound better coming from me?"_

" _You were not there either, " he had said angrily. He was angry with her. He shouldn't have been angry with her. He had left her angry. Left her. _

" _I hope you can live with your choice. " _

_Or had he wished, in those final moments, that she wouldn't? That she would die for being so stupid as to remain behind in a land turned into a massive graveyard . Let her die. She abandoned him for a land that no one can save. She left had him. _

_Rhh…sar? What was her name? It should be right there, right next to the names of his parents, his cousins, his teachers. A non-name for a non-face. _

Crys screamed freely then, as Leetha tore through his mind like a madman with shears would tear through a tome of brittle paper. Somehow, as the oil from the mint leaves began to soothe the Banenettle poison ravaging his system, the warmage was able to focus. His eyes were closed, clenched tightly against the pain, but he did not need them. Mana surged upwards from the core of his being, flowing like a geyser towards his mind, preparing to erupt, and it did. A clarion chime rang out as sparkling mana breached the air, bursting outwards from the mage and washing against the banshee's protective barrier. She hissed and tried to dig into his mind deeper, but the energy burned her fingers, forcing them to jerk back with a spasm of spectral and corporeal digits. Crys kept summoning the energy, again and again, battering against the undead elf's shielding, tearing at it, weakening it.

Sarah staggered backward away from the wizard, her burned fingers held up in an effort to protect herself as the raw energy washed over her. The warmage's eyes flicked open now, glimmering with tears and filled with rage. Sarah slumped against the golden oak table only to be buffeted backwards by another blast. Her scream tore at Crys's already injured right side, causing him to wince and pause in is assault, but only for a moment. Taking a shaky step forward the mage continued his assault, not caring that the empty pit that was his magical addiction continued to grow and grow as more of his energy left. Sarah had collapsed to the ground now, her dress smoking and blackened from the magical attacks, her skin red and blistered. A small part of Crys died each time he was forced to cause more damage to the body of the woman who had shown him such altruistic kindness in the past, but the part of him that was in control now reminded him that she was already dead, and the banshee within was only wearing her like some sort of clothing made of living flesh.

Sarah, her face a blackened ruin now, tried to sit up, her jaw dropping in an effort to scream again. She didn't have a chance as Matilda came down and struck the side of her head with a resounding "crack", the head lolling off to the side and all movement ceasing. Daghmor crouched unsteadily beside her, his club raised again to strike down if necessary.

" This isn't over…yet, " Crys gasped, an ethereal mist started to flow from the corpse. Wailing with her unearthly voice Leetha rose up from the charred remains of her host, her angular face a mask of pure hatred.

" You will die this day, worm! You will suffer and your city will crumble, your…," the banshee ranted, opening her mouth impossibly wide and gesturing with her freakishly long fingers at the wizard before her. Crys ended her speech and her existence with pure, massive blast of mage fire, fueling the spell with his own anger and pain, feeding it such power that it very nearly consumed him as well. The ghostly woman disintegrated as the conflagration swallowed her, wailing something about 'her revenge' before her face and pale hair were consumed. There was a blast of heat that washed over the entire scene and then nothing, the conjured fire and its target vanishing so that not even embers remained. Crys immediately collapsed to his knees, striking them painfully on the unyielding floor, his breathing ragged and uneven. Daghmor collapsed back onto his rump, blood trickling over the black leather of his armor from his wounds, Matilda held loosely, comfortingly in his hands.

" Told you, they would send someone, " Dagh managed to say in-between deep draws of breath.

" Liar…you said there'd be ten, " Crys replied, drawing a short, choking laugh from them both as the horror of their near-deaths and the smoking, mangled ruin of the human woman between them was forgotten in a second of mirth almost bordering on the psychotic for being so at odds with the grim situation. It was only a moment, though, and soon guilt and grief choked the elf's throat up more than the poison had minutes prior.

" Why do you have leaves all over your face? " Daghmor asked, peering at him, his eyes no longer clouded by the banshee's spell.

" Mint leaves. Once when I was an apprentice I was grinding dried Banenettle in a mortar and pestle, told to take short, controlled breaths through my nose to avoid becoming sick from it, then I accidentally sneezed. The powder flew up into my face and I breathed some of it in. I started choking and vomiting as the ground leaves traveled into my lungs, my teacher noticing my distress almost immediately. Seizing a nearby mint plant that had been hung to dry he hold me to eat as much of it as I could. The oils from the mint plant slow and dampen the effects of Banenettle almost immediately, and I suspect that the banshee putting some mint in the drink to cover up the smell diluted the poison to keep it from being a lethal dose, " Crys explained, brushing absently at his face.

" Otherwise, " Dagh asked, leaving the question in the air.

" I'd be in a coma right now, speeding towards death, and she'd be…be, " Crys answered, his speech breaking down as he remembered the horrible assault the banshee had inflicted on his mind. The elf's eyes moved rapidly back and forth as if searching for something, his mouth agape.

" No, no. No, no, no! " the elf cried, his face twisting up in an expression of disbelief and anguish. " She's gone! " he finally sobbed, fingers curling into shaking fists and pounding the indifferent stone floor in his grief.

" Who's gone? The maid? " Dagh asked, uncomprehending, gesturing towards the corpse.

Crys shook his head rapidly, his tangled blonde hair tossing about as he did so.

" No! My sister! My memories of her, Rahh..srrr…" Crys strained to say her name.

Daghmor looked on pityingly as his friend attempted to remember the name of his only living relation. He knew well the impact of losing someone so special to you, but to not even be able to remember their name, that was a fresh kind of hell.

" Think, Dagh! I must have mentioned her name to your before! " the elf cried, reaching out and gripping onto the dwarf's shoulders, not caring that one of those shoulders was injured and wet with blood, let alone the spellcaster's own wounds which screamed with pain at his movements.

" You mentioned her name only a few times before lad, and we were both half-tanked when you did. I'll try, for you, now stop stabbing your fingers into my arms and calm down. We need to get patched up and alert help quickly, the ghost bitch might have had back-up waiting nearby to finish the job if she couldn't, " the rogue stated in a calming but stern voice while looking towards the door. Shivering and feeling utterly violated, Crys said nothing at first, getting shakily to his feet. " I have enough for one more spell. It'll put us in the middle of the barracks, where we can get some quick help and alert the guard at the same time. "

Crys put his right arm painfully out parallel to the ground, moving it in a slow half-circle before him as a glowing blue circle appeared beneath him.  
" Are you sure you can… " Daghmor began, concerned, as he stumbled to his feet. There was a flash of light and the dwarf didn't have a chance to finish his question, as the two of them now were suspended in the air with their heads brushing the ceiling of Edward Strongshield's private office. The pair plummeted to the floor, drawing a startled cry from the paladin who had just completed his report about the previous night's encounter with the assassins. One of Crys' legs struck the table as they crashed onto the stonework floor, tipping the inkwell and spilling the ebony liquid all over the papers on his desk. Once the two had finished falling an awkward silence ensued, broken only by the glass inkwell rolling off of the desk to shatter on the floor, and pained groans from the two recently teleported companions. Edward, wearing an expression of complete surprise, mouth agape under his neatly trimmed handle-bar moustache, looked over the edge of the desk at the two interlopers. Crys, lifting his head up and peering at the holy warrior between eyes squinting against the agonizing multiple injuries he had sustained, managed to say only one thing before passing out completely:

"Close enough. "

Suul paced in his ritual chamber, this time however not muttering to himself about avenging Mal'Ganis's death. He walked in silence, his brow furrowed, his arms clasped loosely behind his back under the joint where his wings met his back. There was something that happened then, a slight stirring in the magical fields surrounding him. A slight movement at his side made him start, twisting his body around to regard the small pouch that hung from his belt. Eyes growing wide in alarm the dreadlord ripped the pouch from his side and opened it hastily. The lone finger that fell out into his palm promptly turned black, as if being exposed to a flame. The winged demon emitted a tiny noise of loss and disbelief as the blackened digit then collapsed into a line of fine dust on his pale hand. " No! " Suul raged, clenching his fist closed tightly, shutting away the image from his eyes. Leetha was destroyed, gone. Whether the two she was sent to kill were dead or not, he didn't know, even if she had succeeded her loss was almost more than Suul could bear. Quiet footsteps approached from behind him, but the dreadlord barely noticed. The room's door squealed open, and a voice spoke; clear, flat, and to the point.

" I leave for Ashenvale tomorrow, whether your plot has succeeded or not, " Golonda coldly informed him, her injury no longer bothering her and draped in her expansive cloak as if ready to leave at a moment's notice.

Dracol whirled around swiftly, taking several large paces forward to stand face-to-face with the equally tall Kaldorei.

" Do not presume to dictate the terms of our arrangement at a time like this! " he roared, baring his fangs and wishing for all the world he could sink them into her neck right now.

The former underwarden only glared back, her face an unmoving mask.

" Use me however you must in the next while, but I will not die for you, and I will leave tomorrow morning, even if I have to cut through all of your cultists and yourself to do

so, " she warned, a dangerous edge creeping into her voice. How dare she, Suul silently fumed. She was a tool, not an artisan. It was his plan which would bring Theramore tumbling down around the human's ears, it was his ritual, while all she needed to do was butcher a few people and bring a part of them back to complete the spell. How…?

Suul stopped suddenly, his head turning off to the side as his eyes worked rapidly back- and-forth. Golonda stood unmoving as the dreadlord suddenly stalked away from her, moving over to stand next to his cauldron, his hands curling around the rim and staring into the deep red bubbling contents within. It was so simple Dracol was privately ashamed to not have thought of it sooner. He had a delicate and precise plan of his own design set out before him and because of his slavish adherence to it, he now stood on the brink of ruin. And elf and a dwarf…by the dark gods of the Twisting Nether the answer had been staring him in the face the whole time.

Suul whirled around, glaring at the Kaldorei who still stood stiff-backed and defiant by the door. " Kill the elven wizard and dwarf who have been investigating your murders. Kill them as soon as you think you can get away with it. Take the elf's eyes and the dwarf's hands, bring them back here and I will never want to see you again. No notes, no subtle fear, I want them butchered, tonight. "

" I know them, the pair that stumbled across me when I killed the druid. They will die, and after that I will not so much as raise a finger to aid you. I will be away to the mainland and travel swift and relentless to the northern forests, " the Kaldorei stated with the tiniest of nods of deference to him. Golonda had turned to leave so swiftly that Suul's dismissive gesture was almost lost to her, but she paid it no mind. Her final night in Theramore would be a brutal and bloody one, she would tear the elf's eyes out of his head while he still breathed if she felt she could save some time in doing so. You will be avenged, Awel. What we had will be avenged, she silently swore as she slipped through the passageways towards the surface.


	16. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Once again, Crys awoke from unconsciousness not completely sure of where he was or how badly he was injured. A groan heralded his slipping away from the arms of sleep, the rough and distant sounds of men talking and armor rattling made it very clear he slept not in his chambers. Battle with a banshee. Teleport spell off-target. Sarah.

Crys started, drawing a sharp inhalation as he propped himself up in the cot he was laying on. Tall, narrow windows lined the wall opposite him, the panes arranged in such a way that the symbol of the Church of the Light, two half –circles facing one another horizontally and bisected by a straight line, was set in the middle in red-tinted glass. Sunlight poured through the window, casting the mage of the Light's cross over him in a fuzzy red light. A quick scan of the room had a few off-duty footmen standing near the infirmary door, with the sounds of more moving about in the barracks proper. Daghmor was in the cot next to him, dressed in a rough woolen tunic dyed forest green and dun colored breeches, snoring soundly, his club held loosely in his hands which crossed his chest. The elf saw no bandages around where Dagh had taken hits from the banshees sonic attack, and surmised that he had actually been given magical healing.

More to the point, apparently so had he. He not in nearly as much pain as he anticipated he would be, not sporting a single stitch of linen bandage on him, a pleasant contrast to his previous two awakenings. The same black leggings as before still sat on his legs, but a new shirt, of sky blue silk, covered his chest. The guards must know every garment I own now, Crys thought to himself, less than comfortable with strangers rifling through his drawers to find something for the elf to wear after his previous garments ended up blood-soaked and torn. The elf checked his wounds. The cut on his head felt like a sore welt to his gently probing fingers, and shifting the shirt to the side showed the dagger wound in his shoulder was an angry red still, but unlikely to open again unless under extreme duress. Grimly, Crys regarded what remained of his severed small finger, no comforting and padded bandage hiding the stark truth of the matter from his eyes now.

So absorbed in taking in his environment as he was, Crys still heard the paladin's footsteps approaching before he appeared, dressed in the same rich blue tunic and saffron cloth vest, straight-legged black trousers and glossy black boots as he wore when they had "dropped" in on him. His expression was one of mild concern, his hands clasped behind him as he took up a position before their two cots.

" I trust you are feeling better than you did when we met earlier in the day, " Edward asked lightly, looking to the elf.

" I'm physically better than I have been in days, " Crys answered slowly, shifting his weight to lay on his side, " but I confess to being soul-sick of this endless stream of brutality and death. "

The paladin dipped his head in acknowledgement, the middle of his distinctive moustache twitching as his lips pursed at the thought of the burned and mutilated woman he and his fellow soldiers had found in the middle of the elf's chambers.

" It's been a rough week, on some more than others, I can't agree more. This pain is a cleansing one though, as the infection that is the cult behind this dies as well with more of its operatives in the ground. We'll beat them, " Edward assured the elf.

" That maid, Sarah. She was not one of them. She was controlled to do so, I had no choice but to…do what I did. She deserves a proper burial at the very least, " the warmage informed him sadly, picking a spot on the floor to stare at.

" I understand, " the holy warrior said softly. " I know of a little place just beyond the front gates before the soil gets too soggy. These small pink flowers grow there, and it is beautiful at sunset, with the light off of the water. "

" She would have liked that, " the elf choked, his tone grateful.

" There's also been a bit of a break in the case. We've finally managed to trace some of these cult members to a subterranean lair underneath several houses. How extensive these tunnels are we don't know as of yet, but this very evening I will personally lead an assault force down there and root out every last one of them. "

Crys brightened a bit when he heard this news, returning his gaze to the man to which he spoke. " It will be good to strike a harsh, even crippling blow against them. You will have my sword and my spells at your disposal when you go down there. "

Edward shook his head. " No, sir wizard. I understand your desire to make these cultists pay, but while on the road to recovery, you are far from in any condition to participate in an attack like this so soon. Its' been an awkward and bloody path, but I think you will be seeing the end of this investigation tonight, or by the beginning of the next week at the latest, depending on how things go tonight. "

Crys ground his teeth at having to sit out the most important and likely final operation against the cult he had been investigating for the past week, but also knew the paladin raised a very good point. His stomach churned even now, the mixture of Banenettle and mint still in his system would likely make his next few meals mild-flavored and light. He was merely less injured now, not healed. This didn't even consider the crippling mental wounds that the warmage had incurred as well, ones which Crys was careful to keep out of focus at this time.

" I understand. I will nevertheless like to go over the final details of this cult with you once the raid is finished, so I can submit a report to Governess Proudmoore to bring closure to the matter. "

Edward nodded. " I had suspected as much, though the Governess will be away for the next several days on an extended tour of the Alliance holdings in the area. She left the completion of this task to me in her absence, answerable only to the council. We will have plenty of time to collaborate and submit said report. "

Crys tried to keep the disappointment from his face. All of this trouble and he would be denied a reason to visit Jaina in person one more time. Perhaps it was better that way. He'd just trip over his words and stare awkwardly at her again.

" Speaking of reports, I have one to re-write, and a office to set back into order, " Edward commented as he turned to leave, a ghost of a smile on his face. " I shall leave you and the dwarf whom I am not entire certain is actually sleeping to your own devices, though I strongly recommend seeing the healer before you leave to be certain you are fit to leave the infirmary. Good eve, gentlemen. "

The paladin had barely slipped past the door frame when Daghmor's eyes popped open, shifting his arms around until they rested as his sides.

" Musta killed him a little inside to have to heal the likes of me, " the rogue observed dryly, a smile on his lips.

" You were awake the whole conversation? " the warmage asked, his face inquiring, but the sort of inquiring that knew the answer already.

" Most of it. If there was anything to be added I would have, but I was content to let a holier-than-thou choir boy like Eddy and a dainty, fainting elf like you chew the fat without my two coppers added in. "

Crys rolled his eyes and flopped onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Let it end tonight, he thought. The mage had seen too much blood and lives ended in his lifetime already, let alone the past several days. The fish merchant's funeral would be soon, if it hadn't happened already, his friends and family saying their last good-byes. The orc's traveling companions would be well on their way back home to Orgrimmar, their comrade buried in the red Barrens soil with a pile of rocks and his axe as a marker. Sharleste would still be picking up the pieces of her shattered life and figuring out what to tell her superiors when she finally returned to Darnassus. Crys didn't know how many would be attending Sarah's funeral, but as far as he knew she had no family here, like him. He would be there, at least.

" You thinking about that maid, lad? " the dwarf asked him quietly, gazing at the ceiling like it held a portent of the future as well.

" Yes. "

" I'll go with you to the funeral, if you'd like, " the rogue asked with a shrug.

" If you wish. You didn't really know her, but then I suppose I didn't either. "

Daghmor nodded. " One is a Nether-blasted, rotten number of people to attend a

funeral. "

" Couldn't agree more, friend. I couldn't agree more. "

How many people would attend his funeral, Crys wondered. Daghmor, if he was in Theramore at the time. A few of his contemporaries, there more to satisfy professional obligations than to mourn. A small honor guard of luckless footmen 'volunteered' for the task of carrying the coffin. Some words about how the Light gives and it takes, about his selfless service to the military, and then the dirt would fall.

By the Aspects I could use a drink, Crys sighed to himself.

Like a pot simmering over a fire, Golonda's anger waited, ready to explode. She was seated in a slouch atop a watch tower, the trap door leading to the top couldn't be opened short of breaking it apart after she had tampered with the hinges, so she was safe for the moment and afforded an excellent view of her surroundings, which included the barracks that the elf and dwarf were staying in. After enduring so much waiting and planning and set-backs the former Under-warden constantly shifted uncomfortably around, her body literally itching to act, to kill and be done with this all. There were too many guards in there now, even for her, and the pair she was supposed to assassinate were apparently good enough to survive two previous attempts, so she couldn't discount the threat they posed as well. Even fantasizing about creeping into Tyrande's bedchamber and making sure that she knew why she was about to die before flaying her beautiful skin while she screamed for her goddess to save her couldn't satisfy Golonda anymore.

The diversion she was planning on would have to wait until it was at least a little dark. She was rather conspicuous leaping from rooftop to rooftop in full daylight, and her presence might alert her prey, something which would complicate her mission greatly. Golonda shifted her injured foot, the slight pain there telling her that it wasn't fully healed yet, but was little more than a minor annoyance now. She had always been a fast healer. By the time she was halfway to night elf lands it would be little more than a small round scar. It would take some time to determine exactly where Tyrande now dwelled, and more time after that to find an opportunity to strike. Golonda wouldn't have minded it, though, because she was at last working on the last chapter in a story that had gone on too long already, one full of anguish and unfulfilled vengeance.

How would that story end, the tall elf asked herself suddenly. With the priestess dead and torn into a thousand crimson pieces, to be sure, but…after that? Golonda leaned her head against a stone crenellation, her white eyes glassy as her focus turned inwards. She had always fancied that she would then die to the guards who would eventually break down the door she had blocked and slay her on the spot in their righteous anger over the death of Tyrande. She would have fulfilled her duty then, like a crystal arrow that found its mark and destroyed itself upon impact as well. That was it? All of her training, her desire, her anger, and one death would be the climax of it all? Was that all she was; a bitter, used up automaton with only one goal and one possible end? Everything up to this point had been about getting to roughly where she was now, and while it was perhaps a bit premature to consider Tyrande as good as dead, it still begged the question.

Golonda shivered suddenly, drawing her legs up and hugging her body. She couldn't afford to lose her focus now, not now. She needed to complete her obligations to the Shadow Council and their puppet Suul before she could leave, then, each step north would help her put her mind back into focus. She was just tired, is all. Her path would become clear again after she was gone from this stinking human city. Aweldessa must be avenged. Their love must be purged of the dark shadow under which it had been destroyed, and only she could do it.

I miss you, Awel, Golonda silently mouthed, a single silvery tear breaking free of her glimmering white eyes.

Dusk. To be perfectly honest, Crys hadn't wanted to return to his chambers atop the wizard tower just yet. There was doubtlessly some unlucky cleaning staff in there now, scrubbing and otherwise removing the blood from his floors and anything else that was spattered with the now rust-brown fluid. A great many things had been spilled on that floor since he moved in there, but not blood prior to yesterday. The elf was glad he was important enough to warrant not having to clean up after himself in matters such as this, mopping at the grisly bits of gore on the stone and picking up tattered, singed bits of Sarah's dress from the floor. He would make sure that some extra coin made its way to those who had to straighten up, no doubt a disturbing task regardless if you knew what exactly had happened there or not.

The pair had waited in the infirmary simply because they wouldn't be able to lay down in a tavern. Daghmor didn't seem anxious to return to the tower either, and had snoozed through most of the afternoon. Now, however, the thought of lying on his back any more made his head hurt, and the wizard was getting hungry besides. His "uniform" had been brought for him, along with is short staff, minus a cloak. It was a warm day out and likely a humid evening, so even the lightest of additional coverings would have been close to unbearable. Dagh's donned his armor, not even patched up but with precious little alternative, grumbling that he'd have to buy a new set with some of the gold he would be getting from Crys.

The high elf had just taken up his staff when there was a ruckus from in the barracks proper, along with hastily shouted orders in what sounded like Edward voice. Curious, the two made their way out, down a short hallway and stood watching the chaos that had suddenly erupted in the normally orderly building. Footmen scrambled for their equipment while the paladin stood frowning and resolute in the middle, like a steel buoy in the midst of a sea of chaos. Picking their way through the throng with puzzled expression on their faces, the pair approached Strongshield, who barely noticed them as he berated those moving too slowly.

" Sir Strongshield, it seems like your raid is being a touch hastily put together, " Crys commented, concerned. The paladin looked sharply at him, his face registering insult that he would organize something so dangerous so sloppily.

" No raid, sir elf. Someone's set the Cannoneer's Yard ablaze, and if we don't get enough water on it soon, it's liable to destroy most of a city block and kill dozens! " he replied loudly as the barracks suddenly emptied out onto the street. Crys and Daghmor were shocked by the news, nearly having to jog to keep up with Edward as he moved towards the door as well.

" Is there some way we can aid in you in this? " the elf asked as they strode out into the small courtyard, now filled with mustered troops.

" I don't think so. I need soldiers who can follow orders right now, I fear you'd only be in the way. This is likely a diversionary tactic on behalf of the cult, they must have known about the raid before now and are giving themselves time to scatter. I'll be damned if it isn't working too, I've even had to pull entire crews of sailors off of patrol ships to help with this one, " Edward growled, leaving them standing by the reinforced doors of the barracks while he marched between the ranks of soldiers and ordered them to triple time it to the Yard, taking the lead, leaving Crys and Dagh alone in the marshalling square. There was definitely the smell of smoke in the evening air, and off to the south a massive grey plume churned into the darkening sky.

" Nasty business, " Daghmor snorted, shaking his head.

" This assignment may not be over as quickly as Edward had said back in the infirmary, " the elf postulated.

" Then there's still the business of… " the dwarven rogue began, looking to his companion and then his eyes growing wide as he saw something quite alarming somewhere past Crys. The wizard didn't have time to turn his head to look, however, because he was too busy being tripped by the dwarf's foot, which, not coincidently, allowed him to avoid the whirling blade that would have neatly separated his head from his shoulders. The errant moon glaive threw up a shower of spark as it skidded across the worn stones of the courtyard, then just as suddenly as it appeared it changed direction back towards the two, Dagh already ducking and the warmage's back just impacting the ground.

Crys struck the stonework street hard enough to jar his bones, but thankfully his reflexes were enough for him to avoid striking the back of his head. Falling unconscious would be an incredibly bad thing to do right now. Crys looked to his right, seeing the tall Kaldorei assassin standing atop the outer wall, her arm barely moving as the whirling bladed disk returned to its perch on her forearm.

" Her, " Dagh said finally, finishing off his previous sentence. Crys was already scrambling back to his feet, keeping low in case the weapon made another sweeping strike at the two of them.

" Unless I miss my guess, the cult set up the distraction so that she could have her time with us alone, " the warmage muttered.

" Let her come, I've been itching to put this murderous wench down since we encountered her. She's a key player in this whole cult things too, if she goes down, they lose a very valuable member, " Daghmor reasoned.

The two parties looked at one another for awhile, neither moving. The fire still raged off in the distance and the loud shouts of alarm and command sounded like one long moan as it drifted over the stone walls around them. With a high-pitched, feral cry the Kaldorei launched herself her from the wall towards them, releasing her moon glaive once again, in a vertical spin. Crys and Daghmor split, letting the blade passed between them, the wizard engaging his magic shield, and a split second later, was very glad he had. Mid-way on her trip to street level the elf sensed magic activate, and before he could blink roughly two score steel daggers were driving point first into his shield. They bounced and skidded off harmlessly, clattering against the stone around him, but his shield was now down, and she was far from out of tricks.

The assassin landed in a crouch, her cloak flowing down behind her like a dark banner, her hood falling back to reveal her silver-white hair and her pale eyes narrowed in concentration. Crys had his blade half-drawn when the night elf was suddenly right in front of him, screaming like a bird of prey as one of her long legs whipped around in a vicious downwards kick, aiming to send him to the ground at the very least. A combination of his magically enhanced boots and pure elven quickness let him slip by the full force of the blow, merely being clipped by her heel, though that alone made him stumble away. A large blue gem on her gauntlet caught Crys's attention as it began to glow, and a warning cry from Daghmor heralded the skipping noise of the deadly arcanite moon glaive returning to her possession.

Recovering his balance Crys sent out a freezing burst of ice from under him, the magical frost encasing the Kaldorei's legs from the shin down. The mage then threw out his right hand, fingers loosely splayed as a long tongue of fire lashed out at the now trapped assassin. Golonda was quite certain of her opponents next move ahead of time, however, and she threw her upper body backwards in a controlled arc, receiving her bladed weapon back and stopping her fall to the street with her other hand, ending up in a arched position. Crys's next spell was aborted as Golonda whipped herself back up into a stand, all the muscles in her body responding flawlessly to her mind's guidance, her right arm sweeping out in a cross-body motion, the glaive leaving its home on her forearm guard once again in a short ranged and precise stroke.

Crys would be damned to the Nether if he didn't think he was going to die right then, but his own clumsy feet, unused to fighting on cobbles, gave out from under him as they attempted some far more competent dodge in response to her latest attack. The blade passed closely enough by him for him to feel the wind pass over his face, his landing only a bit more graceful and controlled than his previous spill. Growling in anger at her slippery prey Golonda blinked forward ten paces as her moon glaive returned to its home on her right forearm, breaking free of the magical ice and putting some distance between her and the dwarf that was charging at her. This elf was half eel, half tumbling buffoon, making her task that much more difficult. She whirled to face the two of them, teeth bared in a snarl more suited for a wolf than a smooth-skinned, feminine face such as hers.

" She's a nimble thing, I'll give her that, " Daghmor spat, taking up a flanking position beside Crys as the mage once again climbed to his feet. He would hurt tomorrow, provided he survived the night.

There was a sort of faint whipping noise then and a crossbow bolt skidded past Golonda's feet, bringing all eyes to bear on one of the skeleton crew of footmen still present in the barracks, hastily reloading his weapon from a second storey arrow slit. The assassin didn't wait around for him to do so, though, breaking into a run for the nearest wall and with an inhuman leap, soared gracefully to the top. She spun around then, her voice harsh and angry as she spoke in Darnassian, addressing the two of them.

" I head for Theramore's walls now. I will kill anyone who crosses my path if you do not follow closely. We will finish this, the two of you and I, in a place with no distractions or interference. "

Then, she tipped backwards, falling off of the wall onto the Theramore street on the other side.

" I didn't mind the odds the way they were now, " the dwarf sneered at the departing Kaldorei, looking to Crys as to what to do next. The elf's blonde hair whipped around as he quickly scanned the area. A stable, a little behind the barracks.

" There! " the wizard gestured frantically, the pair racing towards the horses. It had been awhile since Crys had ridden, and even longer since it was bareback, but at least the horses still had reins and a bridle. The hollow, staccato noise of running hooves on stone soon filled the walled enclosure as the two urged their mounts on, Daghmor still clinging awkwardly to the side of the horse he had chosen, the steed obviously intended for human-sized riders.

A faint scream reached elf and dwarf as they rounded the corner of the wall to the alley which the assassin had landed, up ahead a young Theramore citizen crumpled to the street, her blood oozing out from the large, fatal wound she had bore across the torso from Golonda's razor sharp weapon. Crys scowled darkly at the casual disregard the Kaldorei had for life, kicking his horse faster as he charged down the alley. She had to be stopped, though the elf wasn't certain he would be able to do such a thing. The pair tore past a gathering group of townspeople who had witnessed the crime, calling for guards that wouldn't come. The night elf had taken to the roof tops again, easily keeping pace with the horses with her rapid, long-legged stride, short frost-hued hair tossing wildly about as she sped towards her destination. There was a grin on her face, as if she enjoyed every second of the battle, of the blood-letting, of the finale that was about to take place. Crys had wondered before if this assassin was insane or simply cold-hearted and callous. Now he had quite firmly decided that she was both. There was something that happened to her that made her this way, but Crys found he could muster no sympathy for her, and only the tiniest inkling of curiosity.

Crys clung tightly with his legs to his mount as the two of them split around a porter with a wheelbarrow of manure who couldn't pull to the side quickly enough, spilling his burden to the street as they rushed past him. Warning shouts kept most pedestrians from slowing their progress, but the few that were too lack-witted to move, plus having to follow the streets rather than move as the crow flies meant they could barely keep the assassin in view. The outer walls of Theramore grew ever larger, the fire and the majority of the city guard almost at the opposite end of the city, exactly the way Golonda wanted it.

She bounded up the stairs once she reached the wall, taking five at a time, the sound of hoof beats telling her that her pursuers weren't far behind. A guard, who had watched in stunned disbelief as she sped towards him, raised his loaded crossbow, eyes wide as she only grinned at him as the bolt took to the air. She simply ceased to exist, appearing behind him and with a casual toss of her right arm, cut upwards along his spine, causing him to drop like a puppet with its strings cut and tumble off the landing to the street below, leaving a crimson smear on the wall as he went.

Crys yanked on the reins a little too roughly to force the horse to a stop, the rearing steed almost tossing him before calming down enough to allow him to slip off. The guard lay in a crumpled heap nearby, his neck and limbs at awkward angles. The elf cursed under his breath, his anger clouding over his earlier apprehension. He would end this murderer's life, here and now. Daghmor landed with a tumble behind him, his dismount every bit as elegant as his mounting. Crys began to ascend the stairs, keeping an eye on the assassin at all times as she paused for them to catch up, waiting for them on the battlements. With a laugh like the chiming of tiny bells the assassin sent her moon glaive at them again, the two pressing themselves against the staircase to avoid its path.

" Come, fools! Ashenvale beckons me and I have waited far too long already! " she taunted, drawing the spinning disk back to her just in time to take a few light steps away from the uppermost stairs, ready for them.

The elven wizard slowed to a cautious pace as he made it to the top, staff in his left hand for a right-handed draw and right hand ready to either draw or work a spell into being at a moment's notice. Daghmor sidled up beside his taller partner, Matilda at the ready and eyes quickly sweeping over the area to pick out possible hazards or obstacles. The eastern sky was so dark blue as to be almost black, only a few recently lit torches, the dead guard's last duty, holding back the shadows. The west was an orange haze, sunlight and firelight mixing into an almost hellish composite. Below, the sea crashed and roared against the stones, the white froth of the waves barely perceptible against the looming night. No one moved, no one spoke.

The doubts that Golonda had experienced earlier were gone now, washed away by the giddy thrill of blood-letting, of doing what she did best. Here and now, like so many times before in so many different places, she stood on the very edge of life and death, every movement, every breath, every beat of her heart precious and tense with potential energy. They wanted to kill her, she knew that easily enough, could see it on their faces. She was a monster in their eyes, but as Golonda had learned back in the barrow prison, monsters frequently got what they wanted out of life, leaving everybody else broken and unfulfilled in their wake. Let Theramore experience the horror of this silver-haired monster before it is destroyed, and let its dying scream echo all the way to the shadowy boughs of the trees outside of Tyrande's home.

The night elf attacked suddenly, twirling her entire body around and putting the momentum of it into her right arm, sending her unstoppable disk at them both, looking to either shave the top few inches of the dwarf's skull off or sever the elf's right arm at the elbow. Golonda darted forward, still twirling gracefully towards them as she moved, teeth bared in a gleeful snarl. The dwarf ducked low and to the side, almost slipping over the edge, the top of the wall barely five feet across. The elf twisted his upper body around, drawing his right arm behind him, Golonda imagining his hand curling into a near fist as he prepared to throw a spell at her, likely fire.

There was something different to the elf now, his movements and expression were more focused, more controlled. Rather than drawing his hand back forward in a pushing motion, Crys moved the short staff in his left hand around until the top was behind him, continuing the path his right arm was on already. Grasping the top of the staff Crys drew the blade, rotating his entire body in much the same way the night elf was, the end result being his sword coming down at her in an over-head chop. Golonda's bracer moved up to parry that blow, blue sparks flying from the two metal surfaces as they struck. Her left hand, already formed into a fist, lashed out twice, striking the elf in the ribs sharply, followed closely by the assassin's left shin connecting solidly with the side of the mage's torso, forcing a choking gasp from him. The dwarf struck next, a blow he had been long anticipating striking her near her left kidney, sending a searing shock of pain all along her back. Golonda's left leg, without even returning to the ground, lashed out sideward, clipping the dwarf along the side of his face, forcing his eyes to water from the sharp strike to the cheek.

The former Under-warden blinked ahead, putting some distance between her and them while calling her blade back to her. Crys paused in pursuing her only long enough to send a volley of magical darts out, then rushing her with his blade held before him, dwarf in tow. Golonda swiveled her newly returned moon glaive in front of her like a bladed shield, deflecting the magical assault off the enchanted surface like rain drops off a tiled roof. As the elf and dwarf quickly closed the distance between her and them the night elf's left hand swept around and grasped the piece of her cloak where the hood and the drape met at the back of her neck. She tore the cloak free, whipping the voluminous length of cloth towards them, obscuring her from their site behind a billowing curtain of dark wool. " Dagh! Down! " Crys cried as he activated his shield once again and drew his sword protectively in front of him. He warning didn't come a moment too soon as another flurry of pointed steel daggers punched through the floating purple cloth, tearing numerous holes in the fabric before the entire thing was rent in two by the moon glaive slicing through. Her attack was well executed and would have devastated a small group of lightly armored troops, let alone two, the daggers pinging off of Crys's shield as they had before, but weakened it enough so the moon glaive could work to full effect. Crys had anticipated a killing strike to the upper chest and head, his sword drawn up in a cross guard position as the whirling disk struck, anything less than the fine steel that Crys had demanded his sword be made of would have shattered from the impact.

His parry sent the glaive skyward is a glimmering arc, the force of the blow still sending him reeling back several paces. Before the tattered bits of her cloak could even settle to the battlement Golonda was moving, low and quick. She slid to a stop with her right leg straight out, supporting herself with her left leg and her arms. Her heel connected with the elf's lower abdomen, blasting the wind out of him and forcing him to sprawl painfully against one of the cannon emplacements. Getting herself back to both feet the Kaldorei's left foot struck this time, but not at the elf. Her foot pulled back to create a flat striking surface from knee to the tip of her booted foot she aimed at the slow-moving dwarf's right temple, over his club which was coming in for a low sweep for her right knee. She struck a thunderous blow, but surprise and pain registered on her face rather than triumph. She withdrew her injured foot, hopping a bit to keep the weight off of it while Dagh, who had barely registered the fearsome blow, looked at her with a sly grin.

" You stick-thin little elves aren't the only ones with fancy magic tricks, " the rogue chuckled, giving his head a shake and advancing on her again.

The dwarf's skin was far darker than it had been just moments before, as rough-looking and stiff as granite. There was a deliberate slowness to his movements now as well, every bit as strong but slowed by the magic as ancient as the mountains themselves. Daghmor was never been terribly interested in the history of the Titans and the purpose they had originally given the dwarven race, but it was times like this that he was glad he had done a bit of soul-searching in his down time in jail cells to unlock this tiny bit of his heritage.

Utterly baffled by the dwarf's sudden resilience Golonda was forced to vault over another cannon to avoid the rogue's club, landing on her injured foot with a hiss of pain. She summoned her disk back to her, keeping it from falling over the edge of the wall and into the ocean below. 'If I can't break you then I guess I'll cut you,' the night elf reasoned to herself as the moon glaive slid home on her gauntlet. Unleashing the deadly weapon again with a whip of her arm Golonda aimed for the dwarf's head, his slowed movements and the short distance between the two of them would almost guarantee a successful strike. Once again the night elf was surprised as the dwarf tucked into a tight roll, the glaive skidding off the top of the rogue's boots, overcoming his current sluggish movements by letting momentum carry him into striking distance. He jabbed out with the tip of the club, striking Golonda's hip near the leg joint, causing the ligaments there to seize up with pain. She batted aside another strike, summoning her moon glaive back and taking a few short paces back to keep the dwarf out of striking distance.

The night elf flattened herself against the crenellated wall to avoid more white shards of magic streaking towards her from the recovered wizard. Her pulse pounding in her ears Golonda sized up the situation, which wasn't as tipped in her favor as she had initially thought it was. Or was it? Even in his stone-like state, the dwarf moved with a slight limp in his right leg, something she had noticed before but had forgotten in the rush of the conflict. The elven mage was breathing heavy now, the blows she had struck and his magic use sapping the energy from him. Formulating a hasty plan in her mind the night elf acted upon it, striking at the dwarf first. Knocking his club to the side with a back-handed sweep of her moon glaive she struck low and hard with her heel, her entire right leg ending up arrow-straight and vibrating from the force behind the kick. The blow caught the dwarf on the inside of his right leg, and while his skin was stone, his joints did not benefit from the ancient protective magic. Daghmor cried out in agony as the strike tore at his old wound, sinking down to his left knee, his concentration broken as the stone spell lifted from his body.

Grinning to herself as the dwarf's skin lightened she kicked his weapon off to the side with a clatter of wood, swinging the same foot around to strike him with the outer edge of her foot along the side of his head, the blow sending the dwarf to the battlement floor. An almost casual flick of her right arm sent her glaive at the elf to occupy him long enough to make sure the dwarf wouldn't be a threat for the rest of the battle. Reaching down Golonda grasped the rogue's right hand in an iron grip and pulled upwards until the fallen dwarf's torso lifted a few inches off the ground. Her right foot descended again, striking his armpit while she pulled, popping his arm out of joint and eliciting another pained scream. She had just enough time to drive her right heel against the back of Daghmor's head before she had to contend with Crys'annadath's assault, her confidence restored despite the pain from the hits she had taken.

The elf was angry, she could see it clearly etched into his fine-boned face, in the way he glared at her as he tried to cut her open with his slender blade. Her glaive had skidded to a stop roughly ten feet behind where the two of them battled, but she was unconcerned. Parrying his sword wide with her gauntlet she dove forward, both fists driving into the elf's chest and gut simultaneously. She batted aside a weak backward strike with the wooden scabbard in his left hand, rolling back into a one-handed cartwheel, the tip of her right foot clipping him under the chin and forcing him to stumble backwards, almost falling. Golonda staggered a bit too as she regained her feet, the acrobatic strike difficult enough without her left foot and hip join paining her as they did.

Crys shook his head, trying to clear the spots from his eyes. Against a regular opponent with a sword, he would have had more of a fighting chance, but this Kaldorei fought using every part of her body and without fear. She was too quick for his spells most of the time as well, what normally would have been a large advantage in his favor was just barely one when faced with her. Dagh was probably still alive, but he most certainly wouldn't be if Crys went down as well, and the possibility of that happening was growing more distinct with each passing moment. They both knew that her main weapon was still behind him, to be recalled whenever she wanted to, effectively surrounding him with hazards. A drop to his left, a wall to his right, a dangerous assassin before him and a flying blade behind him. Crys wished he could say that at least his day had started out well.


	17. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

Crys re-adjusted his sword and took a deep, calming breath. He was burning up too much of his energy too fast trying to keep up with the night elf. Spells were of little use, in the end hurting him more than her because they sapped his vitality. Between them, Daghmor let out a pained moan, but otherwise made no other motion or sound that would indicate he still breathed. His right arm was at an awkward angle, having been dislocated moments before as the Kaldorei assassin evened the odds in the battle. He needed a solution, a final surge that would put an end to this conflict, something unconventional. It had only been a little over a year since he had last seen real battle, but doing nothing but drinking and feeling sorry for himself had dulled him dangerously. His mind, in searching over his memories of past battles seized upon the seed of a plan, but the spell in question was one he hadn't cast in awhile, and it would take time to fully remember the incantation. He had to stall.

" Why do you do this? What made you this way? Why work for a human cult in a human city? Are you just a mercenary, killing for gold, or do you have something personal against the Alliance? " he shouted at her, remaining wary of her movements. She laughed again, the musical, tinkling laughter more suited for some woodland nymph than the brutal and deadly woman before him.

" Stalling for time now? Do you really think that any of the guard even know where you and your dwarf friend are? Or even care for that matter? They have a massive fire to douse, and compared to you two, they would let you die if keeping the men there meant they could save their powder stores. Theramore would have a rough time against the Blackwater Pirates with no cannons or muskets to fire, wouldn't they? " she taunted, taking a dainty step forward.

" What you do here is not personal. The humans haven't interacted with the Kaldorei enough for some crime or injustice of such a magnitude to force you to do this. You work with humans to destroy humans, why? " Crys pressed, teeth gritted in concentration as his mind tried to untangle the proper sequence of mental channels from the rest of his disorganized thoughts and emotions. What the banshee had done to him earlier wasn't helping matters much either.

" I work with far worse than humans, and you are correct that they are not my ultimate goal, but why should I waste my breath talking to a corpse, or a Quel'dorei corpse for that matter? I remember the day Dath'Remar and your kind were cast from Kalimdor, I secretly wishing the Maelstrom that was your kind's doing would swallow you all up and drag you down to the fate you deserved. Now your kind has returned to these shores, and while your numbers are few, it is barely tolerable. I will remedy that situation by leaving one less 'high' elf alive after tonight, " the purple-skinned assassin stated coldly, gesturing towards him.

He had struck a chord with this talk about the Exile. He had to keep her talking while he worked on the final steps of his spell.

" Funny you should talk about foul sorcery and demons, the mistakes of the past, " the warmage chuckled humorlessly, " when I know full well that your master works with necromancy, and the Aspects only know what he's doing with the body parts he's been gathering. The heart of an orc? The vital essence of one of your kind? Acting like some sort of lackey in gathering up these ghoulish items hardly leaves you in any position to be condemning me or any of my race about our past. You're a murderer, a thief, a traitor to your race and a willing participant in necromantic rituals. You'd make a fine

Quel'dorei, " Crys grinned wickedly at her. She actually growled as he said this, her body tensing underneath its tight covering of blackened leather, the myriad sheaths stitched onto it empty now. The gem on her gauntlet glowed blue briefly, the glaive behind him skipping ahead a few feet, a reminder of its presence.

" I did not choose this life, dog! It was chosen for me, by my betters, by betrayal so deep and foul it makes what I do here look like a trifling thing. I lost everything because of it, and now I will end your life and travel north to take my revenge! " she hissed, leaning forward in preparation to attack.

For a tiny moment, one so brief that Crys almost missed it as his mind was over-taxed as it was right now, the elf got the sense that he was looking into a mirror somehow. She was what he feared he might one day become, filled with bitterness and rage, using his skills to spread murder and mayhem. It could have very well of been him who set the Cannoneer's Yard ablaze, and now stood confronted by a Kaldorei investigator who had tracked him here. There was precious little time to ruminate over the concept, though, as his spell was finally prepared and she was intent on killing him this time.

Crys'annadath's hands and fingers twisted and wove in an intricate pattern rising ever upwards as he begun to chant. It was the spell he had attempted days earlier in the dwarven smithy but had been disrupted by a thrown dagger to his shoulder. In retrospect it might have been for the best that it hadn't worked then, even now the mage hoped his targeting was accurate and he wouldn't burn himself…or the unconscious dwarf just paces away. Golonda darted forward, fist poised for a vicious strike, all of her momentum and strength behind it. Time seemed to slow to a crawl for the elf, where it seemed one could completely consume a meal in between the beatings of his heart. His hands reached their apex and curled into claws as they thrust downwards, his voice shouting the final destructive syllable as a tiny, swirling cloud of fire appeared in the air just ahead of where he stood. The small cloud didn't remain small for long, blossoming outwards and then pouring down like some sort of reverse geyser of flame, striking the stone battlements with explosive force. As the fiery pillar churned and swirled just feet from his body Crys set the next part of his plan into action, knowing that the assassin was too quick to be caught by such a spell.

Golonda had to reach out and grasp the butt end of one of the nearby cannons in order to stop her charge in time to avoid being burnt to a crisp, her fingers and shoulder screaming in protest at the sudden jerk. The heat from the magically conjured fire washed over her, tossing her hair about and singeing her long, elegant eyebrows. This was his final hurrah, though, a spell of this power would leave him weakened and slow. He would fall moments after his spell did.

Crys reversed the grip on his sword, drawing it back behind his body and prepared to throw it forward like a javelin, its path to be guided by the same telekinetic force that had drawn his staff to his hand in the smithy fight. The elf closed his eyes, summoning up the Sorcerous Sight, focusing on the part of the wall he had been a few minutes before, where the Kaldorei stood now. She had stopped herself by grasping a cannon, and now stood ready to lunge forward once his spell had dropped. Her bracer began to glow as well, and the moon glaive behind him could be heard scraping and moving behind him.

Without opening his eyes Crys threw the sword tip first through the weakening fire column, guiding it along in relation to the image he saw in his mind's eye. The blade sliced through the spell's effect without hindrance or deviation, speeding unseen towards its target. Forcing his eyes open the fingers on Crys's right hand glowed white briefly and then shot out a set of magical darts through the dissipating fire storm as well. Lastly, his head whipped around to see the spinning disk closing in behind him he shifted his telekinetic focus to it, trying to push it past him, speeding it along its way to its owner. The elf wasn't fast enough to do all of these things, however, and the moon glaive bit deep into his upper left arm, the arcanite parting flesh like it were no more substantial than mist and slicing all the way to the bone with a spurt of red. The elf cried out and clamped his right hand over the large wound, feeling blood course over his trembling fingers.

She would trap him between her fist and her glaive, if one didn't get him the other would. The fire began to break apart and thin, it was almost time to act. Something glimmering speared forward in that moment though, and Golonda's eyes grew wide as the elf's sword flew forward towards her. Impossible! He had used her own trick against her and she fell for it! Twisting her upper body Golonda nevertheless felt the steel tip pierce her flesh just underneath her left collar bone, with enough force to send the now bloody tip out of her back. Gasping in pain the night elf tried to stand up straight, but succeeded instead in receiving three bolts to the chest, the magic burning through her leather suit and burrowing into the flesh beneath. There was no holding back the scream of pain that split the quiet night air then, the Kaldorei staggering against the wall, barely standing. There was a whirring, skipping noise then, the moon glaive dutifully returning to its perch on the back of the gauntlet, the gauntlet which was currently pressed against her torso as her hand clutched the sword in her shoulder. Summoning up the vestiges of her strength Golonda hopped up and back, landing on the wall's edge as her glaive clanged against the stone just below the injured night elf, preventing her own weapon from slicing into her.

Crys watched with some satisfaction as he was finally able to land a successful blow against his canny opponent, the tables of the battle having turned quite quickly. He was glad for this, because he was bleeding quite badly from his shoulder wound and probably couldn't cast another spell without fainting dead away. He shuffled over to stand before her as she teetered on the edge, her conscious efforts to remain standing at war with her grievous injuries. It was over.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Golonda tasted blood and her legs threatened to give out from under her at any time. She lost. She would never get her revenge, the death that she thought she was headed for back in the barrow prison upon her now, with no healing shrine nearby. The Quel'dorei was bleeding freely before her, and may yet die, but Suul would not get his items, not that it mattered to her now anyways. The distant glow of the fire grew fuzzy and indistinct to her eyes, her vision focusing just above the conflagration. There was a slight ringing in her ears, and as she staggered drunkenly backwards she thought she heard a voice, a familiar, sweet voice speaking to her.

' Lie down, Golonda. You look tired. '

" Awel, I…have to, " the former Under-warden gasped reaching out blindly into the night sky.

' Shhh, lie back, my love. It doesn't matter now. You can rest. '

Golonda had no words for her, her eyes closing as her body pitched backwards, disappearing over the edge of the wall.

Crys shuffled forward, the splash of the night elf's body lost in amongst the crashing of the waves. Her body floated there for awhile, tossed about by the surf before being dragged down by the undertow, lost to the world. She seemed delirious just before she fell, reaching for someone, perhaps someone she had lost, that she had turned into a heartless killer over. The elf's own vision began to dim as well, even the torchlight unable to keep away the gathering darkness. Moving over to the tattered cloak Crys took up a sizeable piece and tied it around his arm as best he could. It wouldn't be enough, his blood soaking the strip in a matter of moments and continuing to drench his sleeve, trickling off his finger tips. The wizard stumbled towards the stairs, scanning the street for someone, anyone. The avenues had cleared, either from the approaching night or to gawk at the massive fire at the south end of the city. Crys made it to the first landing before he collapsed, using what remained of his staff to try and get back to his feet. The horses loitered around the base of the stairs. If he could get to one, all he had to do was remain conscious long enough for someone to spot him and summon some guards and a priest. The elf slowly worked his way towards the street, only making it half-way down before he slipped and tumbled down the rest, writhing on the ground in agony, his mouth open in a silent cry.

'Get up' the mage mentally cursed himself, struggling to stand.

It was no use. He would bleed out beside two horses who looked at him uncomprehendingly and were likely wondering when they were going back to their nice stalls in the stables. What, then, had he really expected though? Dying on a field somewhere after slaying some chief lieutenant of Archimonde, surrounded by weeping comrades, Jaina included, who would build a small mausoleum to commemorate his passing? A small, weak chuckle wormed its way out from between his clenched teeth.

I think I'm dying, sister. It feels a lot like the magical addiction does, cold and creeping. I would liked to have taken your name with me to the afterlife, but then, maybe I'll see you there anyways….

Crys'annadath Skychaser shuddered once and breathed his last on the darkened cobblestone street, the only two witnesses whickering softly and glancing around in a disinterested manner.

Muirdo scampered down the dimly lit corridor as quickly as the narrow passage would allow him, his breathing quick and heavy. Nearly slamming into a wall as he took a turn the humble servant of evil set his sights on a door he rarely approached and even more rarely entered. His master's ritual chamber. He skidded to a stop and tried to control his breathing. Delivering bad news incoherently was even worse than delivering bad news over all. Once he was certain he could speak clearly Muirdo placed a hand on the door's handle and steeled his will, putting his faith in that he had always served the dreadlord he was about to face with obedient competence. The door swung open under his hand, his demonic master crouching over his black iron cauldron, his eyes closed in concentration, or so it seemed.

" Master. B-bad news I'm afraid, soldiers have found our tunnels and… " the man started, gesturing and taking a glance back out the door. He fancied he could almost hear their mail-armored bodies clattering and clanking towards him. There was only one punishment for those found guilty of conspiring with necromancers or demons: a long fall off a short rope and his corpse suspended on a tall pole near the docks as a warning to any others who might follow in his foot steps, his rotting flesh honeycombed with burrowing flies and pecked at by crows. Muirdo felt no relief when he discovered he would never make it to the hangman's noose, instead staring with a vague sense of horror and surprise as he saw Suul's claws pushed into his torso all the way up to his actual fingers, the obsidian-sharp nails puncturing his left lung and upper liver. Quivering and looking up to his master with tears in his eyes the dreadlord only growled at him and tossed him aside like a doll, the dying cultist slamming into the limestone wall with five oozing holes in his chest. Muirdo wanted to say something as he slid to a heap on the floor, but it just came out as a burbling moan as his lungs collapsed and he came to a flailing, ignoble death in that chamber far beneath the surface.

Blood dripped from Dracol's black claws, but the sight didn't cheer him. Flicking the red fluid off his talons like a human would the water of a creek Suul set about collecting what small, necessary items he would need once he escaped. The Shadow Council's reach wasn't infinite, he of all beings knew that. He would find a place to lie low for a decade or so, maybe find some humans to corrupt on the other continent and find out what sort of operations were going on regarding Northrend. He would survive this pitiful cult he had created and now watched be destroyed. Tossing the last thing into one of his pouches his sharp demon hearing could perceive the combat going on further along the passage. His cultists were poorly armed and unarmored, little more than meat shields with more zeal than skill, and would be over-run in a matter of moments. Suul only needed those moments to escape, though, and paced towards a section of wall that lead to a passage that only he knew of, one that would lead him to the coast where he would take wing and flee the city he could not bring down.

As he pushed aside the section of wall his blood froze in his veins as a magical, ethereal wind suddenly washed over his back. Despite himself Suul looked back, seeing the unmistakable black vortex sitting opened near his bubbling cauldron. First the Nathrezim's head began to shake in denial, then his voice added itself to his expression of disbelief: " No! " he yelled quite simply at the growing shrouded figure in the vortex. Dracol's next cry was wordless and long, his mind commanding his limbs to move but they only trembled, disobedient to his orders. That particular scream was one that would serve him well in his new home, though it never seemed to make time pass more quickly as the centuries ended up crawling by before him.

" It worked. He will awaken in moments. "

A sigh of relief.

" So you aren't satisfied with just fainting anymore, you had to go and die this time, hmm? An elf will do anything to get out of a proper fight. "

A deep chuckle.

A wordless, primitive response, a vague sense of movement. Arms. His arms? Him? Who was he? Where was he?

'Open your eyes and face reality', a tiny voice said from the darkness.

His face twitched and moved as he tried to remember exactly which muscles controlled the eyelids. Piercing light entering his eyes told him he had found the right ones. His vision was distorted and blurred, only vague blobs of darkness against a backdrop of blinding white light. He tried to speak but his tongue felt limp and incredibly dry, and only a hoarse whisper escaped his throat. Something was put to his lip and tepid water was poured into his mouth. He drank as best he could, coughing and sputtering as he sore throat tried to take it all in. Crys blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to sort out the images swimming before his eyes. Then it hit him. Pain. Like every vein and artery in his body had become nothing less than a passageway for liquid agony to crawl sluggishly through.

" Help me hold him, " one of the voices said, addressing the other blob. Then to him, the voice said; " It's the blood starting to flow again through your body, it will pass in time. "

Hands gripped onto his seizing limbs, pinning him against his hard and cold bed. The moisture in the elf's throat merely allowed him to scream a little more lustily in pain, the tingling burn just under his skin slowly becoming a hot ache, like he had a fever over the entire surface of his skin. His shuddering subsided and the limbs relaxed, as did the hands holding him.

" That wasn't exactly pleasant for someone who recently had a arm pulled out of joint, " the voice to his right groused.

" It was nothing compared to what he felt so stop complaining, or I can pull it back out if you wish. "

" Sarcasm from a paladin. What's next? A charitable goblin? "

The blob to his left, no…a man, with a moustache just sighed tersely and leaned in to peer at Crys closely. " Your eyesight will take a little while to recover, and you've still lost a lot of blood so take it easy. You're alive now, at least. "

" Alive… " a cracking voice, like that of an adolescent, said. His voice.

" So why didn't you just pull this little trick on the murder victims? Would've been able to identify the killer quicker and saved your city some deaths, " the left blob, no, a broadly build, bearded man asked, his tone irritated.

Another barely-patient sigh from the man with the moustache.

" For one, the body needs to be mostly intact for a resurrection to work. The fish merchant was blown to bits, the orc had his heart removed, and the night elf all his blood and his soul sucked out. Secondly, resurrections are only allowed on certain persons as dictated by Alliance law. People like the Governess, the councilmen, and very important members of state are options, and even then the interim leader can veto it, provided that they give ample reason as to why. This makes things like assassinations to gain power difficult to do. "

" So, " the heavy-set, bearded man recounted, " you Silver Handers have the power over life and death itself, but you have to go through committees and votes to use the Light's gift? That smacks of all kinds of stupid. Since when did politicians decide everything that is just and fair in the world? Since when was the head of the church a secular weasel in a formal robe? "

" Stay your tongue, rogue! I admit that I rankle under the tethers placed upon a paladin's powers nowadays, but if we started flinging resurrections around people would come to us for every little thing, from a mother who passed away of old age to a favorite dog who got crushed under a wagon's wheel. We keep our powers until they are absolutely needed. Our people should not fear death if they have led a good life, nor should they look upon death with contempt knowing that they can simply be raised from the dead by a passing holy man. "

" I…am such an important person? " Crys croaked, some semblance of a smile struggling to get a grip on his mouth. The paladin, Edward was his name, responded with a bit of a smile and a shrug.

" Before Governess Proudmoore left she told me that should you fall in the execution of your duties to bring you back. She said you had once again proven to be a useful member of the Alliance and as such should be allowed this privilege, if only once. Few people get a second chance. For instance, she said nothing about the dwarf, " the paladin noted, gesturing to the scowling rogue with his head.

" I feel the same about you, choir boy. Did you know dancing on someone's grave is an old dwarven tradition that shows utmost respect to the deceased? Remember that if you should ever fall in battle, have your resurrection vetoed by a council and are floating around your grave as a ghost, " Daghmor said sourly.

Crys turned his head slowly to the side, his neck stiffer than he had ever felt it before, like he was trying to move his head through mud. With clearing eyesight he glanced about the room, and realized quite quickly why he was laying on something cold and hard. It was a stone slab, one of several in this cool subterranean room. A morgue. The elf shuddered and gasped, his weak limbs clutching at the sheet laid across his body.

" Why here? " he asked, somewhat angrily, his mind likely scarred enough by the experience of dying without waking up in the room where his corpse had been stored.

Edward sighed lightly, something he was doing a lot of lately.

" Simple logistics, " he offered, throwing his hands up in an admission of defeat.

" Sometimes the soul doesn't want to come back, and it saves a bit of time and effort with carrying a body, er, deceased person such as yourself around. I know this is difficult for you, but I trust you'll look at the positives. "

The warmage just nodded, hardly comforted but trying to push the disturbing thoughts of his previous dead state aside for the moment, anyways. After all, Jaina herself had ordered him resurrected, and that was something to be happy about.

When he had moved he noticed his left arm around the outer bicep was bandaged heavily, and stung quite fiercely now. Dark purple bruises were scattered across skin made deathly pale by blood loss. He had gone through quite a lot indeed.

" When you feel ready we'll get you upstairs to the infirmary and laying on something more comfortable. Your wounds should be for the most part healed, the bandages just a precaution. In a few days, after your body has some nutrients in it and has begun to rebuild its lost blood you'll feel worlds better, " the paladin assured him, standing up from his small stool and brushing his hands over the front of his breeches.

Crys laid his head back on the slab, staring at the ceiling, his eyes working back and forth but seeing nothing. Finally he said, " It was so weird, so unsettling now that I look back upon it. "

" What? You dying? I would figure as much, lad, " Daghmor chuckled, shaking his head.

" No, " the elf replied, rolling his head from side-to-side in a negative gesture, " the after part. There was nothing there. No light, no family members waiting, no paradise. Nothing. Just a yawning void. "

His words caused both the paladin and the rogue to shift uneasily in their spots, unsure of what to say. Finally, Edward spoke.

" Don't put too much into that, sir wizard. Death is a shaky and unknown realm even to the greatest scholars and necromancers. What you remember may only have been a transitional area, where you are not quite ready to ascend to the next plane of existence, like you were wanting to return to do something unfinished. "

The elven mage just nodded weakly, saying nothing. The thought was chilling though, a realm of featureless black awaiting any and all who perished, a thousand times a thousand souls drifting forever in the inky beyond.

" I can walk, I think, " he said, slowly, painfully sitting up and swinging his aching legs over the side of the stone slab, eager to be away from this place. Daghmor, his right arm in a sling, slipped off his own stool and limped over.

" Dunno how much help I'll be, lad, but lean on me if you want. "

Crys nodded, holding the burial shroud around his naked body as best he could and resting his free hand on the dwarf's left shoulder. The walk was tediously slow and frustrating for all concerned, but at long last they trod upon wooden planks and shuffled along to the now familiar barracks infirmary. There, the elf found a comfortingly warm woolen robe to slip on and he fairly collapsed onto the cot, the small walk surprisingly taxing. " How long was I…? " Crys asked, deliberately trailing off.

" A little over a day, " the paladin responded, " We went ahead with the raid, my boys soot-covered and tired after fighting the blaze but mad as demons at the cult. We raided later that same night, killed any cultist who didn't surrender, found some foul ritual chamber with Makers-know-what bubbling and seething within a black cauldron and an oddly killed corpse against a wall. We doubt he was the leader of the cult, but we can't be too sure either way. We sanctified the entire area and rooted out every last room, cubbyhole and turn down there. Suffice to say that particular cult won't be bothering Theramore again for a very long time, if ever. "

Crys nodded. " The fire was put out successfully then I take it? " Again, Edward answered, nodding.

" Yes. It took a lot of gumption and hard work, as well as a few mages with water elementals to keep the powder stores from going up. That in and of itself was a real victory. If you had told me you could conjure one of those up I would have reconsidered bringing you along, and likely saved you a bit of trouble with that assassin to boot, " the holy warrior mused.

Crys let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. " Never learned that one. They have their uses to be sure, but I saw one run amuck and kill a student who was trying to control it. I don't take chances like that, not when there's plenty of other things out there trying to kill me already. "

" Well, I should let you rest, you've been through a hell of a lot over the past while. Call for someone if you need anything, I put everyone here at your disposal. "

A thought occurred to Crys as the paladin turned to leave, but he painfully dismissed it. Sarah was merely a poor maid, there would be no way that he could convince the councilmen to bring her back to life, if such a thing was even possible considering her body's current state. She was gone, he had to just admit it and let it go. Daghmor shuffled over to the cot beside him and with a grunt of effort, seated himself on the edge before laying himself out, hissing from between clenched teeth as his injuries protested the movement.

" Glad to see _you_ made it at least, " Crys'annadath pointed out.

" Aye lad, I awoke in some terrible pain though, jostled around in a stretcher heading here. They found the night elf bitch's weapon and assumed she had fallen off the edge into the water below. I assume she died and just didn't run away? "

The wizard shook his head, then answered verbally as his friend was unlikely to have seen the gesture. " No. She was quite injured before she fell, and I think she was dead before she hit the water. If she didn't bleed out down there she would have been dashed against the rocks or drowned by the undertow. She won't be coming back. "

" I see. Not bad for what passes as a warrior among the elves. Get some dwarven training in there and you'll be formidable indeed, " Daghmor smirked.

" I certainly would like to learn that skin to stone ability you had there before you went down like a limp rag. Maybe with an elf's body I would be able to move faster than a boulder on a flat plain does while I have it activated. "

" Nothing doing lad, it takes a real man to learn something like that. You elves probably have something similar though, probably turn yourselves into leaves and blow away at the slightest breeze. "

" Nice to be able to verbally spar with you again, Dagh, " Crys laughed, a short one that made his lungs ache afterwards.

" You still owe me my money, elf. Don't think getting all weepy eyed will make me forget that. "

" There's a 'saving-your-life' deduction on that one though, remember that when payment is finally rendered to you. "

" Get some sleep, scarecrow, or I'll be haggling with the executor of your estate for my earnings. "

Crys said nothing, just smiling faintly and closing his eyes. A thousand little thoughts and pains were threatening to fall down on him, but he quickly let himself drift away into the comforting darkness of sleep. There would be time enough for all of that.


	18. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

_Life is nothing but death's brief dream, _

_Love is its light, darkness its Hate ,_

_Though cruel to you this truth may seem, _

_Dream well, little one, despite thy fate._

- lines four to eight of the High Elven lullaby, _Falling Leaves in Summer._

Days had passed. Theramore sat uneasy and injured just as Crys did. The brief rain yesterday hadn't completely washed away the blood that stained its streets, just as the brushes of the cleaning maids hadn't managed to eradicate every tiny trace that Sarah had died here, that the elf and dwarf had both bled and nearly died as well. Several of the Cannoneer's Yard's buildings were little more than burnt-out shells, blackened wooden skeletons frosted with white ash. The elf was weak still, and could only move about his chambers briefly before having to rest. His physical injuries weren't the worst though. He had experienced his own death and killed someone who seemed to be a dark copy of himself, the psychological wounds running deep and raw yet. He couldn't remember his sister's face or name even still, no journal or tome in his library could give it to him, the few old correspondences he had kept from his school days were simply signed "R", like something as intimate as the knowledge of his own sibling's name could ever be erased from his mind.

The magical addiction was there too, its' frigid, knife-edged pangs lancing into his gut, casting his mind back to the thought of his life bleeding out and the cold darkness of death covering over him like a shroud. Jaina got her report from him, though he was too ill to hand it to her directly, Edward doing the honors. He was commended and paid, and from there so was Daghmor, whose wounds still kept him in the barracks infirmary. Some of that money was used to "make a large donation" to a priest to focus some magical restoration on the dwarf's twice-injured leg, keeping it from making his limp more pronounced and his pace even more tiring to maintain. Against regulations, but the gold would help the city's poor (whatever was left over after the priest had pocketed the rest) and the rogue would be able to hobble around again well enough.

Crys stood in his chambers, leaning on a cane made of driftwood while running his eyes slowly over the entirety of his main room, over the myriad books and scrolls and maps, over the furniture, the lecture board that still bore the crude sketches regarding the murders, the tapestry of Silvermoon, and finally the side board upon which a full decanter of dark rum and a half dozen crystal tumblers sat upside down upon a silver tray. The elven warmage shuffled his way over to the narrow table, setting his cane against the wall and upturning a tumbler while his left hand popped the rounded stopper off the top of the decanter, letting to fall carelessly to the tray with a rattle, and poured until the rich amber liquid threatened to spill over the rim. He then set the container down, the elf noting quite easily the illusionary feeling of partial numbness as his hand gripped the cool receptacle but his smallest finger not being able to wrap around as it used to. He raised the glass to him lips, pausing for only a moment, staring at his reflection in its lightly jostling contents, before downing the heady, burning fluid in three swallows. Crys grimaced as the rest of it trickled down his throat, the Dark Spear blend every bit as potent and unrefined as he had imagined it to be. He wasn't in a mood to be a connoisseur right now.

A second glass was poured and lifted to his mouth. Crys drank deeply from this one as well, knowing that Sarah wouldn't be there to wake him in the morning.

Night was upon the sea surrounding Theramore as well, its chilly waters nevertheless alive with activity as various fish and crustaceans went about the necessary actions of feeding and trying to avoid becoming food in the dark waters. Shifting back and forth lightly with the waves passing overhead, partially weighed down by a thick metal gauntlet on its arm and a sword piercing its upper left torso, and partially entangled in sea weed, a corpse floated. The black leather outer skin had been picked at and sliced away by sharp little teeth in a hundred places, brilliant white hair acting like a beacon to the numerous little scavengers who prowled in amongst the weeds for the dead or dying. A Warhammer Brow shark swam slowly with powerful, elegant twists of its body, using the acute nasal openings on the middle of its distinctively shaped head to home in on the drifting carrion. Its horseshoe shaped mouth, lined with dozens of triangular teeth opened and tore a large chunk out of the meaty thigh, gulping it down whole and thrashing lightly as it positioned itself for another strike. The shark instead twisted sharply around and with a rapid whipping of its notched tail, darted away, not stopping until it was little more than a faint speck against the washed-out grey the sea had become after night fall.

Darkness seeped from all the little nicks and cuts along the corpses' length, much like blood had days previous. The liquid darkness began to congeal, separate from the surrounding water like it were oil. Its mass continued to grow as a vague shape started to emerge; two legs, two arms, a head, a large circular mass with three curving blades radiating from the central disk on the right arm. The shape refined itself further, the figure taking on vaguely feminine qualities, the blades on its right arm looking every bit as sharp as they would were they forged of steel. Lastly, two almond-shaped "eyes" of burning blue energy appeared on the shadowy head, followed closely by a fist-sized, round patch of the same energy on the back of the tri-bladed shadow weapon. The shadow began to move, rotating itself around and sending itself down to the sea floor, unmoved by the currents around it. Once it had settled itself there it paused for a long moment, as if getting its bearings, or considering something. One shadowy foot moved forward, followed by the other in an unhurried yet ceaseless cadence. Its burning blue eyes were fixed on a single point, though nothing nearby or readily apparent, like it spied something very far off and now worked towards that goal.

_I am Golonda Silvernight…and I will not be stopped. I _will_ have my revenge._

The shadow figure soon blended in with the rest of the darkness around it, descending deeper and deeper, heading north.


End file.
